The Punchline
by technicolor-werewolf
Summary: So, two Russians, a Spanish Basque, a Japanese, a Britisher, and an American walk into a bar... Despite their differences, somehow the Cobra Unit served five years together as brothers without killing each other and even without setting each other on fire. Often. A series of related WWII-era oneshots. Ch 15: Soldiers get time off. Spies don't.
1. Dec 2, 1942 - Knit Happens

**_Note to the new or returning reader: I essentially started this story cold, and it shows. Over the course of the fic, I've gotten back into practice with fanfiction in general, fully fleshed the characters out and retconned quite a bit of the mistakes I made in early chapters, fixed their dynamic as a unit, fervently studied WWII military history, espionage, and covert ops, created a cohesive headcanon that fits neatly between MGS canon and history as we know it, and even learned how to actually pronounce Russian. I've also learned a lot more about the Boss'/Joy's backstory from Peace Walker, but generally ignored it for my own purposes. I've decided to leave "The Punchline" up even though it doesn't completely match up with my real headcanon and is not at any point my best work...it's sort of like the crazy RP you do with your best friend, except that for some reason I decided to publish it. Hopefully it will sink into graceful oblivion (x.x;), but if not, at least consider yourself forewarned that this is more or less crackfic at its less-than-finest!_**

_A/N: I apologize in advance for my Cyrillic transliterations, which may or may not be correct but are at least there to prevent having to use the phrase "XYZ swore in Russian" over and over again. There was a **reason** Sts. Cyril and Methodius came up with a whole different alphabet for Russian..._

The date was 2 December, 1942, and the Cobra Unit was fresh from Operation Harling. It had been grueling, but at least there was a lull in the action – for now. For the moment, the team was stuck holed up in –

"…the middle of _jóbanyj_ nowhere," the Fury grumbled, completely ignoring the fact that it was his turn to play. "And I've been in prisons bigger than this place, too. They could at least've sent us down to London, don't you think?"

"Maybe so, if they weren't _still rebuilding it_," the End said pointedly. No one really paid him any attention, as he fell back asleep almost immediately afterwards. It was snowing heavily outside, and since he refused to use up others' resources by eating "normal" food, the lack of natural light was making him grouchier than they had all seen him in months. End had been making do so far by sleeping a lot and using an experimental "horticultural lamp" that he'd brought back from Greece. Whenever Joy asked about it, he would fiddle with the dial and mutter that of course he'd be fine, but it just wasn't the same.

"Shut up and drink your stout, Fury, you're holding up the game," Fear said, poking his comrade in the shoulder.

Fury glowered at him but slapped down his play nevertheless before reaching for his glass. "Two sevens. And if you're trying to get me drunk so I'll be in better spirits, well, I still say this is a pitiful excuse for alcohol. Hell, this is the kind of stuff I drank as a _kid_."

"Oh, god, here we go again with the vodka rant." The Pain rolled his eyes.

"It is _not_ a _rant_!" Fury growled. "It is a statement of fact that once you grow up on strong spirits, you can never go back. Isn't that right, Sorrow?" he said, looking to his fellow Russian for backup.

"…twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…huh? Yeah, yeah. That's why I just don't drink anymore. Unless I can get my hands on at least 8o proof, there's no point. Twenty-nine? No…you made me lose track," he sighed, going back to the beginning of his needle.

The Fear craned his neck around the Pain to get a good look at the Sorrow. "Wait, are you…seriously _knitting_?"

"Seven, eight…wait, or was that ten?" The Sorrow sighed and just gave up, throwing his project down in his lap. "Yes, Fear, I am. How _else_ do you think I stay warm at forty thousand feet, since you're always complaining about how drafty those planes are and how _useless _Army issue is at keeping out the cold?"

Fear wrinkled up his nose. He _had_ wondered why his comrade always looked so smug and warm on long flights, but had put it down the whole "growing up in FREAKING SIBERIA, or somewhere close to it" thing. "Yeah, but that's really a girl thing, isn't it?"

"It is a _perfectly useful skill_," Sorrow said, pushing up his glasses and blushing a little. "And it is _not_ just a 'girl thing'. I learned from my grandfather."

"I knew it!" Fury said, grinning wickedly. "Pansy-ism _does_ run in families."

"Just shut up and let me count," Sorrow grumbled, turning even pinker.

The Fear got up and bounded over, leaning on the edge of the Sorrow's chair to get a better look. "What are you even _making_? It looks like some kind of mutated octopus, what with all those pointy things."

Sorrow glared at him, curling up a little to hide it as best as he could. "It's a sock, if you _must_ know. Now get out of my face, before you _accidentally_ trip and fall eyeball-first onto one of 'those pointy things'."

Fury laughed. "Ooh, the old "be careful, you might poke your eye out with that thing" lecture. Sooooo scary."

"Hey, is that one finished?" Fear said, suddenly noticing something poking out from under the Sorrow's arm.

"Yes, but –"

The Fear snatched the completed sock before the other man could stop him and held it up to the light, breaking into giggles. "Cute! Real cute. I can just feel the manliness radiating from the decorative border thingy around the leg. Did you make that up all by yourself, or did you have to special order one of those little magazines for housewives with too much time on their hands?"

Sorrow tried to grab it back, but in vain. "Just give it back, will you? Do you _know _how strict the rationing is on wool here?"

"Don't know, don't care," Fear said gleefully, disjointing his finger and thumb so that the sock swayed grotesquely back and forth between them. "Joy probably got it for you, so what does it matter? That woman could make a rock bleed, so I'm sure she could get you _all_ the pretty little things you could ever want." He grinned and tossed it onto the table, thankfully avoiding all three glasses of beer. "Just take a look at that, boys."

Fury picked it up and smirked. "Very cute, I agree. Are those little _snowflakes_ on there? How do you even do that?"

The Pain squinted a little. "Wait, that's not for _you_, is it, Sorrow? I mean, your feet _are_ kind of small, but still…"

The Sorrow stormed across the room and snatched back the stolen half of the Joy's Christmas present, retreating to his chair half in irritation and half in embarrassment. "Look, do I make fun of you for how much you cried after your pet spider passed, Fear?"

Fear glared and sat back down at the table quickly amid snickers from Fury. "I had _extremely_ legitimate reasons for that! You have _no_ idea how potent his venom was! I was mourning the death of a comrade – Pain, _you_ understand, don't you? – which is _completely_ different from doing stupid sissy _needlework_ when you could be over here having drinks and a game of cards with us _real_ men."

Pain patted Fear on the shoulder. "I completely understand. Oh yeah, and speaking of cards, I call _ne verish_ on those sevens," he added, reaching over to the pile of cards to check. "Haha! Take 'em back, liar."

Fury gathered up the large pile of cards that had accumulated among the cigarette butts, bottle caps, and crumpled paper on their table. "Ah _jób_. Now see, _this_ is the reason we let Joy do the spying - I can't lie worth _dermó_."

"Would you two _stop_ it with the Russian?!" the Fear spat angrily. "We're not even playing that version of the game!"

"Not our fault you never bothered to learn it."

"Yeah, everyone else here is practically fluent, Fear. Get with the program."

"_Pikutara joan_, Fury. I'll learn Russian when you learn Basque, how about that?"

Across the room, Sorrow untangled his yarn and tried to tuck the other sock away as quickly as he could, but once again he was too slow. "_Are_ those snowflakes? Let me see," he heard, as gentle hands suddenly reached down and plucked it from his own.

"You've got to stop sneaking up on me like that," he said, jumping a little and flushing pink again as the Joy draped herself over the back of his chair.

"You've got to learn to feel me coming," she said, fingering the knitted fabric with a smile. The body was in heather grey, the decorative pattern made up of varying shades of olive and cream. It was…frankly, beautiful. "Do you let your guard _that_ far down when you're not in battle?"

Her soft breath on the back of his neck was making it hard to think. "I…wasn't expecting you," he stammered lamely. "I was distracted."

"Life is one long series of distractions," she sighed. "Learn to shut them out, Sorrow, or they will overwhelm you and leave you susceptible to the attacks that come when you least expect them." …not that she was doing a terribly good job of shutting out distractions right now, herself. Joy dropped the sock back into his lap and pulled back from that particular distraction, shooting a _look_ over at the card table. "The executive decision, boys, is that they _are_ snowflakes, and that they are damn good snowflakes too, so leave him alone about them."

"You're such a killjoy," Fear said, shaking his head and then giggling at his own terrible joke before slapping a card down. "One eight."

"_Ne verish,_" Fury said with a grin. (Further distraction, Joy noted: the sound of more angry swearing in Basque and Spanish against a background of laughter, followed by that of cards being flipped over.) "…_jób_!"

"The point of the game is to _not_ end up with all the cards, Fury!"

"Well, why don't we change the rules so it _is_?"

"Because then it wouldn't be bullshit anymore, that's why."

"Well, that's bullshit!"

"I haven't even played my hand yet!"

"WASN'T TALKING TO YOU, PAIN!"

The Joy dragged the last free chair between the End's and the Sorrow's and collapsed into it with a sigh. Between the funny looks she kept getting from the officers' wives, the loud and violent way these three interpreted "brotherly love", the End getting progressively grouchier from lack of sunlight, and now this weird...attraction...thing...she was starting to feel toward the Sorrow...well, they had only been here for less than a week now, but if they didn't get new marching orders soon, she truly believed that she was going to go crazy.


	2. Dec 3 - In Soviet Russia, Fight Has You

_3__rd__ December, 1942_

"Remind me again why we have to smoke outside," the Fear whimpered, trying to get as close to the Fury as he could without looking like he was actually seeking out the resident inferno's excess body heat. "I swear, if this is a ploy to make us all give it up, I am _walking_ to the nearest village, however many hundred thousand kilometers that may be."

"Well, _somebody_ started lighting up a little too close to the powder magazine for Lieutenant Sullivan's comfort, and now he doesn't trust any of us with matches in the building," the Joy grumbled, hands shaking as she repeatedly tried and failed to get her cigarette lit. "Speaking of you, Fury, come get this damn thing going for me, or block the wind, or _something_ useful. Do it without grumbling, and it might even make me more lenient when I finally get around of thinking up the best way to discipline you for this."

Fury sighed and moved across their little circle to help his leader out, leaving the Fear in visible pain at the temporary loss of his human space heater. "Is it really my fault that the good lieutenant has a stick up his -"

"_Yes_," all five of his comrades said at once.

"Sheesh…I love you all, too."

"Let's just say you're lucky that the hornets are going dormant with the cold," the Pain said, glaring and shivering a little. No one had thought to bring winter clothes to _Greece_, and it since had been impossible to find anything big enough for him in this outpost (he flatly refused to refer to such a dinky little thing as a 'base'), he had been reduced to stitching a pair of worn-out quilts into the best approximation of a winter kimono that he could manage. The others had known better than to tease _him_ about that.

"Yep, that's me, lucky," Fury laughed. "Hey, Fear, what's the matter? Doesn't it ever get cold where you come from?"

"Nothing's the matter," the Fear said, teeth chattering, grinding down on the cig in his mouth.

"Oh, yeah, you're just bundled up like that for the hell of it," Fury said fondly. "Think you've got enough layers on?"…oh _dermó_, the Sorrow was grinning. That was _never_ a good sign.

"What's that look for?" Fear said suspiciously, then turned to see the smirk on Sorrow's face. "And what's _that_ look for?"

"I was just contemplating whether or not it would be worth it ask who's laughing about my knitting _now_," Sorrow said smugly from his perch on the garden wall. "Not that I really _need_ it, so here."

"Hey, hey, watch the cigar!" Fear yelped as he suddenly had a slightly-too-large knit hat shoved down over his eyes.

"Yeah, do you want my jacket?" Fury said, taking on a smirk as well and peeling off the article in question. "I don't need it either."

"Show-offs," the Fear hissed, pulling the hat up far enough so that he could glare at the Fury.

"Your loss," he shrugged, handing the jacket off to Joy (who also looked a bit chilly.) "This is _nothing_ compared to winter in Russia."

"It's not terribly bad for England, either," the End said, wrapped up contentedly on his bench, teeth clamped around a pipe that was probably as old as he was. "You should see what happens in _January_."

The Fear turned to the Joy with a look of panic in his eyes. "Please, _please_ tell me we're getting out of this hellhole before then."

"You know I can't promise anything," she said, wrapping the Fury's jacket around herself tightly. "Ooh, you're really missing out here, Fear. This is _warm_."

"_I hate you all._"

"Kind of feels like May, doesn't it?" the Sorrow said casually, undoing his own coat and draping it over the tree branch next to him. He himself wasn't smoking, having traded his ration of cigarettes for everyone else's rations of tea (why the hell were _they_ being subjected to the civilian rationing system, anyway?), but he had spent enough time staring at walls by himself to prefer cold company to none at all.

"More like March," Fury laughed. "Oh, but you're from way up in Krasnoyarsk, aren't you? Probably gets a hell of a lot colder there than it does in Stalingrad."

"I should _say_ it does. It was negative thirty the day I left for Germany."

"Stop it, you're making me colder just talking about it!" Fear whined.

"Your problem," Pain said, poking the Fear in the shoulder with a grin, "is that you are prejudiced against Russians. First we can't speak the language, now we can't even talk about our weather?"

"Boys, boys, play nice," the Joy scolded with a drag on her cigarette and an amused look that completely contradicted her tone. She didn't bother even trying to remind Pain that he was only half Russian and hadn't lived even a day of his life there; he was always exactly what suited his purposes, and so far he seemed to have decided it was better to be half Russian than half Japanese.

"You know what we always used to do back home for _Maslenitsa_," Fury said, ignoring her. "All the men in the village would go out –"

"No," Sorrow said firmly, seeing exactly where the Fury was going with this.

"What, you're scared to take me in a fair fight?" Fury said, crossing his arms.

"No, I mean I'm _not_ taking my shirt off."

The charitable interpretation of Sorrow's pink cheeks would have been that the wind was chapping them, but Fury wasn't a charitable kind of guy. "You know we could make Joy go back inside, if it bothers you _that_ much."

"And leave you all unsupervised?" she said, pulling her cigarette from her mouth to wave it in the Fury's face. "Fat chance. I'd come back and you'd have reduced the garden to ashes." Seriously, it seemed sometimes that her boys were more destructive when they were bored than when they were actually in a battle situation.

The Sorrow threw up his hands. "There you have it. She's not going anywhere."

"Or maybe you're just not man enough?" Fury was already pulling his outer uniform shirt off and tossing it aside. "Come on, just five minutes. I can probably take you down that fast."

"I'm not listening," Sorrow said, staring up at the sky. "Not listening, not listening. Besides, it's nowhere _near_ _Maslenitsa_."

"All the better," Fury said, grinning. "You won't even get frostbite."

The Sorrow shook his head. "I'll fight you, sure, but only _with_ my clothes on."

The Fury laughed. "What, are you hiding something under there? It's not a fair fight unless you're just as cold as I am, and I'm not putting _this_ back on until one of us gets a faceful of snow and dirt – " he pulled his undershirt off, threw down his cigarette, and crossed his arms across his bare and rather furry chest - "So _there_."

"I don't believe this," Joy sighed, collapsing next to the End. "I don't fucking believe this…"

"Just get this over with so we can all go back inside where it is _not_ below freezing," Fear said, finding a spot on the bench where the extra body heat now made it much warmer than just standing around.

"My money's on Fury," the Pain said, sitting down on the snow next to the now-packed bench. "Sorry, _Pečál_, but you're kind of useless without the psychic powers…ow!"

"I said play _nice_," Joy muttered, shaking out her hand from where her fingers had just come into contact with Pain's hard skull.

Sorrow groaned. "Do we _have_ to do this? It can't be more than a week since you last pulled the 'let's-tease-Sorrow-until-he-agrees-to-do-something-stupid-to-save-his-pride' trick."

"It'll be _fun_," Fury said stubbornly. "Now get your ass over here before I _drag_ it off that wall."

"Oh yes, and physical threats were the week before," Sorrow sighed. "Fine. Whatever. But whatever happens, you had better remember this was _your_ idea, Fury."

"Why wouldn't I?" he laughed. "Come on, now. I'll try to avoid breaking your glasses, I promise."

"Don't worry. They're not coming with me," the Sorrow said, setting them aside and pulling off shirt and undershirt in one smooth move.

…it was fairly easy now to see why he had stubbornly resisted stripping down, as well as his preference for scarves and high collars. Joy tried not to stare, but she really couldn't help it. Sorrow's torso was crisscrossed by ugly scars, front and back. Mental notes from a training class she had entirely forgotten she'd once taken suddenly began to play on loop in her head. _The sharper the instrument, the less prominent the healed wound. Razor blade, thin and low. Heavy whip, thin but strongly raised. Strap, long and wide welts. Burns, low but splotchy and widespread. Extracted shrapnel_ – well, that one at least she knew the origin of, but –

_CRACK!_

Fury had been just as caught off his guard as Joy had been, leaving himself open for a flying kick to the face that laid him flat on his back. He was up in a minute, blood streaming from his nose, but looked almost too disoriented now to land a proper punch.

"Never mind…I think the Sorrow might get him," Pain said, raising his eyebrows underneath his balaclava. Joy just chewed on her cigarette, wide-eyed, while Fear continued to shiver and attempt to steal the sleep-groggy End's blankets.

The resulting fistfight, despite what would have seemed an extreme physical mismatch, continued for a full fifteen minutes, as the Fury never quite seemed to recover from the shock of that first kick to the nose and the Sorrow had the advantage of being short enough to hit him in the stomach and abdomen while ducking punches aimed at his head. It probably would have kept going for longer, if the Joy hadn't finished her cigarette and promptly decided she'd had enough of watching her soldiers beat each other up.

"All right, break it up!" she yelled, taking advantage of Sorrow's staggering backwards from a hit to the shoulder to shove him into a snow bank before whirling around and body-slamming an off-balance Fury into the ground. "You're not going to accomplish _anything_ except making each other completely unfit for battle if we have to ship out tomorrow," she said, standing up and brushing bloody snow off of Fury's jacket, which she was still wearing. "Fear, go inside before you pass out from hypothermia, and take the End with you. You too, Pain." Joy turned to the two combatants, who were beginning to sit up and look at her uncertainly. "Fury, put your damn shirt on and go get that nose looked at. You know where to find Dr. Whitston. And Sorrow, get dressed and grab your glasses. _You're_ coming with me. We need to talk."

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked as the others trudged off, pushing himself up with some difficulty and crossing his arms across himself self-consciously. (Eyes, Joy. Eyes, eyes, eyes, they are up _there_, quite a bit higher than the razor slash across his collarbone and the faint remains of rope burn on his neck.)

"No, Fury definitely started it, and he took the blame in advance," she sighed. "But I really thought you knew better. You can't let them _get_ to you like that."

He staggered back to the wall for his clothes as best as he could, blushing bright in shame. "I am – truly sorry. I shouldn't have given in. I've just –" He gave a chuckle as he slipped his shirts back over his thin frame. "I've just wanted to do that for _months_ now."

"It was an excellent opening strategy, actually," she said, grudgingly admiring. 'Useless without his psychic powers', indeed. "I think you could have worn him down with enough time."

Sorrow shook his head, settling his glasses back on his face and blinking as his eyes readjusted. "He has higher stamina, and he was actually able to channel his usual battle emotion. I was about to lose when you stepped in, really…I'm not used to fighting with anger in me."

Joy blinked in confusion. "You, angry?"

He bowed his head. "For making me give up one of my secrets. You remember I spent seven years in Dachau before I escaped to join the Allies."

"I suppose I'd forgotten…" she said, wondering how she could have. "You haven't talked about it since you joined."

"I would prefer to keep that way," he said, suddenly sounding cold and harsh, then relaxing a little and sighing. "Forgive me. I suppose that's what you wanted to talk about, isn't it? I just don't like to remember. There was so much death there, so much suffering – as I suppose you saw."

The Joy blushed, this time. He'd probably caught her staring. "A little."

He shrugged. "The guards didn't like the foreigners, and I was an easy target. That's all. Some people just get drunk on power."

Her mouth twisted by itself. "I understand _that_."

Sorrow laughed softly. "I'm glad you do." He moved to take a step forward, and suddenly winced. "Damn it…I think he might have broken something."

She sighed in exasperation. "Two of my best men broken in the same day, and we're not even in a war zone."

He smiled, and suddenly those piercing blue eyes turned warm. "You know we're _all_ your best men, Joy."

"I'm just saying…" She chuckled. "Never mind. Here, lean on me, Whitston can have a look at you too, I suppose."

"I'm sure they're beginning think we're all crazy," he said, putting one arm around her shoulder to avoid moving his left side as much as possible. His rib was bruised, at the very least…but he had gotten Fury right smack in his smug face. And the respect he knew that had just won him was _more_ than worth one lousy bruised rib - maybe even worth having to show off such dishonorable wounds to the other Cobras.

Joy laughed aloud as she helped him back toward the building. "Trust me, Sorrow, they already do."

"But we're the _good_ kind of crazy, right?"

"Hell, yes!"

"Then that's what matters."

_A/N: Yes, the half-naked Maslenitsa fistfight really is a thing in Russia, at least according to my awesome Russian-born-and-raised professor. So the real question here is, why didn't Fury just take pity on everyone else and make them a tiny campfire? To which, I give my stock answer: Joy said no. _

_My headcanon of Sorrow's backstory (specifically, how he came to spend 1933-1940 in the Dachau concentration camp, and what exactly happened there) is something that will be more fully explained in a later story, but I think what I've written here is enough for the chapter to stand on its own. If not, well...that's what that little box that says "type your review here" is for. I always answer my messages. :)_


	3. June 26, 1943 - Independence Dates

_June 26, 1943_

"_Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggggghhh !"  
_

The Pain and the Fury looked at each other and jumped back from the door a minute before it flew open and the Joy stomped in, banging it shut behind her. "What are you two staring at?" she snarled, slamming her book down onto the table, then picking it up and throwing it down again for maximum effect.

"You look about ready to bite someone's head off," Fury said, hoping it wasn't his.

"Oh, so I guess you heard me blowing off some steam out there," she said, kicking a crooked chair back into place so hard that it went crooked again. "It's none of _you_, don't worry about that." The two Cobras inched back a little further nonetheless; when Joy got mad, she ended up getting mad at whoever was in her way, too. "Stop that!" she snapped. "Where's everyone else, anyway?"

"Um, the End's on a stroll outside, I think," Pain said cautiously. "Sorrow's in his room, and I haven't seen the Fear in a while, but…"

"Never mind. Forget it, it's not important." the Joy said, repeatedly trying and failing to slam shut the window that was always sticking partway open. "Not. Important. At all."

"So…everything's all right, then?" Fury asked, sounding a little more annoyed than he'd planned to. As much fear as he had of getting chewed out by his commandant, it was also _really_ irritating when she pulled shit like this. He liked to know exactly who he needed to be staying away from in order to avoid guilt by association.

"Did you know," she said, turning on him with a very fixed smile that suddenly made him wish he'd kept his damn big mouth shut, "that the base commander has decided to hold an officers' ball for Independence Day?"

"No…?"

"Well, they are," she growled, turning back to the window and finally cracking the glass in her attempt to make it shut. "_Oh god damn it._"

"So…you're mad because they invited you and you don't want to go?" the Pain tried.

"No," Joy said as she threw herself into one of the less breakable-looking chairs.

"They _didn't _invite you, and you _did_ want to go?" Fury said doubtfully.

"_No!_"

They looked at each other, wondering if they should even ask any more questions. "So…did you make the list or not?" Pain chanced, finally.

"No," Joy said, "I did _not_."

"But you said…"

"Corporal MacNamara thought I might like to go with him," she grumbled. "That's the _only_ reason I know about it."

"We need the End for this," Fury sighed under his breath to Pain. "He understands women better."

"…told him no, of course, but that is _not the point_," Joy continued, ignoring or not noticing the muttering going on behind her back.

"Maybe it's because we're not really attached to the base?" the Pain said.

"Oh, no. Want to know how I know?" she said, starting to sound dangerously cheerful.

"…how do you know?" the Fury said cautiously. Much like Sorrow smiling, Joy gritting her teeth like that was one of the worst signs there was.

"Because that SAS idiot they have visiting asked me too!" Joy said, dropping the smile in favor of a snarl. "I _cannot_ believe I'm not ranked with the officers here!"

"But do you even _want _to go, Joy?" Fury asked, still not really seeing the issue.

"That is _not_ the point," she said huffily. "The _point_ is that this place is run by a bunch of sexist, prejudiced _bastards_!"

"Wait, so, you do want to go?" the Pain said, completely confused now.

"I said that's _not the point_, damn it!"

"…yeah, we definitely need the End," Pain grumbled to Fury.

"I _am_ a commanding officer! I have my own damn _unit_ and they are the _best damn unit_ in this _whole damn country_!" Joy spat, glaring at them. "We have ranks and everything! The only reason they didn't tell me about the damn thing is that I _just so happen_ to _not be a man_!"

"You know we can _get_ you an invitation if that's the problem," Fury said, trying his best to look like he was planning on doing it nicely.

"THAT'S NOT THE PROBLEM!" she screamed, pushing herself up from the chair and making them both shrink back against the wall. "You're not even listening! Oh, you two are _useless_. Where did you say that the Sorrow was?"

"I-in his room?"

"Maybe?"

"He just kind of…floats around from place to place, you kn-"

_SLAM._

"…Joy's been pretty pissy for a while, hasn't she?" the Pain said, leaning down to pick up the broken window glass.

"Give her a break, Pain," Fury said as he settled into the chair she had just vacated. "She hasn't got to shoot anything in a whole _month_."

"Yeah…yeah, that's probably it."

The Sorrow was not in his room. Nor was he in the mess hall, the courtyard, the commissary, the projector room, the map room, his room – no, wait, she'd already checked there. _Jób_. (Damn it, she'd been hanging around the Fury too long.) She was going to have to yell at him later for disappearing on her like that. Stupid man. Stupid men. Stupid…stupid…_idiots_.

When Joy got back to their allotted common room, the Fear had joined the other two in a game of poker that the Fury appeared to be losing very badly. "Did'ja find him?" he said, leaning his chair back to get a better look as she stalked into the room.

"Find who?" Fear asked.

"Sorrow, and _no_," Joy said, kicking the crooked chair again – which fell apart on impact, eliciting one of the worst swears Fear had ever heard from her. "…to hell, and your mother too," she snarled, kicking it again until another piece fell off. "It's almost like he's _hiding_ from me, or something."

Fear blinked at her. "What, you hadn't noticed that he does that?"

She crossed the room in three steps and leaned over the table at him, knocking over a stack of poker chips. "Does _what_."

"Disappears just before you start looking for him," Fear said, flicking his tongue at her coolly. "ESP, you know. Why do you want to find him so badly, anyway?"

The Joy flushed. "It's – _important_, that's all."

"Something to do with us not listening to her," the Fury sighed as he tried to pick up the chips and surreptitiously pull a few back into his pile. "She's all pissy because she didn't get invited to the officers' ball except as a couple of losers' dates."

"I am not _pissy_!" she said, smacking him on the side of the head. "And that is _completely not the point_, like I said! All I want is a little _respect_ around here, if that's not too much to ASK!"

"_We_ respect you," the Pain said, somewhat affronted. "If _that's_ why you're trying to find the Sorrow -"

"Once again, _it's_ _not you_," Joy growled. "I would just like the captain to realize that _just because I'm a woman…_"

"I'll never understand why you didn't just change the sex on your file while no one was looking, Joy," Fear said, taking back Fury's stolen chips smoothly. "You don't _act_ like a woman. I mean, you wear men's uniforms, never fix your hair, don't paint your face at all…do you even own a dress?"

"No," Joy snapped. Wait… "No…wait….sort of."

"How do you 'sort of own' a dress?" Fury said, rubbing his head. "That's like being 'sort of' married or 'a little bit' pregnant."

"I mean I own one but I can't wear it anywhere," she said angrily, getting back up from the table and folding her arms across her chest. "I have _no_ idea why I still have it. I haven't worn it since they switched me from espionage to combat five years ago."

"Why's that a reason you can't wear it?" the Pain asked. "It's not like you've gained weight or anything, right?"

The Joy barely restrained herself from strangling him. No. Bad Joy. You need him in working condition. "No, it's because it's _five years old_."

"…and?"

"We need the End," Fear groaned quietly.

"Of course _you_ wouldn't understand," Joy snarled. "Look, number one, it's _silk_, number two, it's _floor-length_, and number three, it's _slinky_. Not even movie stars wear dresses like that since they started rationing, it's goddamn _unpatriotic_. I should have made a parachute out of it years ago." She shot the three Cobras a preemptive glare. "I was sixteen years old, all right, and I thought I looked like Jean Harlow. Everybody does stupid shit when they're sixteen. Besides, I had to have _something_ to distract the perverted old men while I snuck around stealing their secrets."

The Fury sighed, knowing that that glare meant _stop imagining me in that dress RIGHT THIS SECOND_. "Can't you just cut it off at the knees or something?"

Joy blushed at the thought. "_No! _There's little enough fabric in that thing _above_ the waist as it is! And even if I tried to use the extra skirt fabric to make it even _half_ decent, I can't sew a stitch."

"So you _are_ going to the ball now?" Fear said.

"What? No!" she yelped. "I _said_ –"

He shrugged. "Since we're talking about dresses, I figured you were. We _can_ get you an invitation…"

"I already offered," the Fury said. "She wouldn't hear of it."

"Well, why would I _want_ to go?" Joy snapped. "It's going to be a bunch of middle-aged men and their wives standing around gossiping while the lonely-hearts all ogle whatever poor girls they got to come with them and try to steal each other's dates. I have more important things to do."

"Such as?" Fear said.

"Getting us another mission," she shot back, "or practicing hand-to-hand combat, or working on my gun, or reviewing the news from the front, or you know what, maybe I'll just go to bed early!" she said, getting gradually pinker and pinker. "God, you three, what's so hard to understand about '_I don't want to go'?!_ I've spent _more_ than enough of my life sitting on someone's arm and looking pretty already, and I'm just offended that nobody thought of me as an officer! That's _all_!"

"You're blushing," Fear said flatly.

"_It's an angry blush_!"

The Pain's eyes narrowed in what looked like a wicked grin, and he poked the Fury in the shoulder. "Hey, what if we all crash the party?"

"No!" Joy said, slapping him next. "You are _not_ getting me _yet another_ lecture on keeping you lot under control!"

"'All' would include you, Commandant," the Fear said, taking on a grin as well. "You could even go as a man, if it would make you feel better."

"I'm going to start calling you the "Three Stooges" if you don't stop being so ridiculous," she said, crossing her arms and then groaning when it became obvious they didn't get the reference. "Never mind. _Nobody_ is going to the damn ball, I am _not_ wearing that stupid dress _or_ pretending to be a man, and…and if you see the Sorrow, tell him to go jump in a fucking river!" she snarled, pulling off her jacket and throwing it on the table before storming out once again.

The Pain looked at Fear. "…don't actually tell him that."

Fear shook his head. "What is _up_ with her?" The other two just shrugged. "Oh, well. It'll come out sooner or later. Your turn, Fury."

The Joy didn't even bother looking for Sorrow this time, just went straight to her room and nearly broke the hinges trying to get the door closed. Stupid. Damn. Men. "You're a soldier, Joy," she told herself, yanking her hair out of its braid and shaking it out over her shoulders. "Life is not _normal_. Life is _war_. Life is fatigues and mud and being a _commanding officer_. Who really should have been invited but that's _okay_ because you _didn't want to go anyway_." It was true. Really. Honestly. She'd been to enough parties in her spy days, and those were boring enough _with_ a mission to carry out. Still, the _idea_ of a…well, a _normal_ kind of life tugged at her heart a little, still. "Stupid Joy," she whispered, sitting down on the floor and unlocking her trunk. "You'd hate being a civilian. You'd be bored out of your mind, you'd resent your husband, and you'd never be able to change the world, either. This is the price you pay...you're not little Miss Marshall anymore, Joy, and you're only a twenty-year-old girl on the outside. You're a _soldier_…" Nevertheless her hands were pulling aside drawers and folded clothing, seeking a five-year-old silk dress wrapped in tissue at the very bottom. "Stupid Joy…" She was just going to try it on. It wasn't like she was _going_ anywhere in it. She wasn't even going to leave her room. So there.

The minute she picked it up, however, it crumbled apart. "Army life doesn't suit you, huh?" she laughed at the torn fabric, which had obviously been through too many soakings and near-fires to stay in wearable condition. "Just as well...there's no telling what might have happened if I'd actually worn you anywhere. There would have been a scandal, for certain." Pity. There was still a part of her left over from those spy days that liked a good scandal. "I might have even been able to get Sorrow to pay attention to me in _you_."

Hm. Maybe she _did_ need a new dress. That, and the Pain's idea of crashing the ball was actually starting to sound a little fun.

Joy wondered if she still remembered how to dance.

_A/N: Yep, there's going to be a lot of timeskipping back and forth, since there's no real overarching plot. (Sorry, if you were expecting one.) I was considering removing the "Humor" label, but, then, they're definitely crashing the party next chapter. And if Joy in a dress and End insisting on wearing a sixty-year-old suit isn't funny, then I don't know what is. So just pretend this one is labeled "Friendship/Angst" instead.  
_


	4. July 4, 1943 - As Time Goes By

_A/N: First off, thanks for the reviews! Normally I respond through PM, but since you two are anonymous I have to do it here. Ton and Ray, I have every intention of continuing, no worries! I'm glad you're enjoying it. ^_^_

_ALSO, for anyone who actually understands US military rankings: I don't. My excuses for the assigned ranks are as follows:_

_1) It probably says somewhere in some uber-duber-classified file that Donovan has at the bottom of his desk drawer exactly what it is that the Cobras' individual ranks **are**….but they're so isolated from the hierarchy that I don't think anyone really cares, to be honest. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it._

_2) Technically, the Joy really is a sergeant, being in charge of her own squad._

_3) The Soviet Army called everybody in charge of **anything** "comándir", and since the Fury was once a private in the Soviet Army and five-sixths of my Cobras are fluent in Russian, I think the title just sort of stuck._

_4) The only thing Joy's really bothered to do is to name the End her second-in-command, hence his rank of Lieutenant (although he briefly served as a Sergeant Specialist during the second Anglo-Afghan War. Yes, the same one Dr. Watson was in. One day, a crossover fic must be born…) _

_…Anyway, thus endeth the author rant. I promise not to pull these on you too often. On with the fun, now with 98% more of the End! Woo!_

_3 July 1943_

Now that she was thinking straight again, the Joy had absolutely no intention of attending the officers' ball in an actual dress. She really did have too many problems getting taken seriously around here as it was, obviously, to come sailing in looking like one of the officers' wives or girlfriends. (Wonderful way to start a rumor or…she mentally counted the men in her unit…five. Ugh.) The officers would all be in their dress uniforms, of course, but being experimental had its price, and that included no real uniforms for her unit. They wore whatever they had to in the field, and when they were between missions they were usually too tired to give a damn about stupid things like clothes. Joy had a couple pairs of mechanic's coveralls and a belt, which was more than enough for her off duty in most weather. Go to Russia, add a parka. Go to Colombia, roll up the sleeves. She didn't even have to worry about whether her stockings were crooked or if her slip was showing.

For a ball, though, she supposed that she should put in a little more effort. _You wear men's uniforms, never fix your hair, don't paint your face at all…_hmph. There was still a dusty cosmetics kit and box of hairpins sitting in the bottom of her trunk where the dress had been, and the quartermaster had been able to dig up a WAAC uniform in her size easily enough. She'd look professional and get her point across at the same time. Win-win.

"I changed my mind," she said calmly, poking her head into the cramped lounge to see who was inside. Oh good, she'd finally caught everyone in one place. "I'm going to their stupid dance after all."

For some reason, everybody looked at the End, who just smiled and nodded. "Good for you, Joy. You go show them all who the boss is."

She grinned, coming into the room and shutting the door behind her. "Oh, don't worry, I _will_."

The Pain turned and stared at her. "What are you _wearing_?"

"It's a dress uniform for a Women's Army Auxiliary Corps officer," she said as she looked around for a free seat, wobbling slightly on the slight heel on her shoes. Oh god, she hadn't worn heels since…forever. This was going to be tough. "All the men are going to be in _their_ dress uniforms, so I figured it'd suit best." Oh, there was Sorrow. Wasn't she supposed to be yelling at him for something? Eh…it couldn't have been that important. She sat down next to him awkwardly, trying to remember how to sit in a short skirt properly. There wasn't enough room to cross her legs right over left at the knees - or left over right at the knees. Or – wait, was she supposed to keep them pressed together? Damn it, this was why she never bothered…

"Ankles," the Sorrow said quietly, looking at the ceiling. "You cross your legs at the ankles. Or at least that's what my mother would tell my sister to do."

"Thanks," she grumbled, fixing her legs so she wasn't flashing her thighs to the whole room now. "I hate wearing these things."

The Fury smirked. "Okay, so you're going, _and _you've got a dress…sort of. Did you get a date, or what?"

Joy gave him a sharp look. "No, and I don't _need_ one. I'm going alone." Fury, Fear, and Pain immediately broke out their objections in scandalized tones.

"You're _what_?"

"That's no fun!"

"Is that a _no, we can't crash the party_?"

"Come _on_, Joy, it's a _dance_, you can't go _alone_."

"I can and I will," she said firmly. "I'm not going to amuse myself; I'm going to make a _point_. I still don't think you're listening."

"_I'm_ listening," End said, patting her on the shoulder. "You wanted my advice, boys, well, my advice is that you should just leave the Commander alone and let her do what she does best: show everyone else up."

She exhaled. "Yes. Exactly right, End. Call it…a personal mission. I need something to do besides sitting around here developing dry rot."

"Well, so do _we_," Fury said pointedly, "and you won't let me train with the grenades."

"You don't _need_ to train with the grenades, Fury, you've got almost perfect marksmanship," the Joy said, gritting her teeth. "At this point, it's just you blowing things up for fun."

Fury considered for a moment and then got up from his chair and paced slowly over to the ratty sofa she was on. "You know…the quickest way to get us something else to do is to give other people a reason to _find_ us something else to do."

She narrowed her eyes. "I said no grenades."

"I'm not talking about grenades!" He leaned on the back of the couch, grinning. "Remember what Pain said about crashing the party? They'll be dying to get rid of us after that."

"I would _like_ to maintain at least a _somewhat_ professional image," Joy said, turning to glare at him.

"Ah really?" he asked smugly.

"Yes. Really."

"And how are you planning to introduce yourself, Commander _Joy_?" the Fury demanded. "We're classified, remember? The _professional_ thing would be to not go at all, since they didn't invite you, and what's the point in doing anything halfway?"

"Well, I was planning to simply introduce myself as myself, Private _Fury_," Joy said. She didn't like the idea, it dragged up too many old memories…but the code names were _her_ rule, after all. Not Donovan's. Not the Philosophers'. Just hers. She was allowed to break her own rules, if she had to, wasn't she? "It's not like they don't know my real name here. And I'm not going for the conversation, either."

"So, you're just going to stand in the corner the whole time, then?" Fear said. "I mean, you're not going to talk, you're not going to dance…I guess you could drink punch, but I bet it tastes horrible. At least find someone to go with you, so you don't look like a…whatever the phrase is." He made grabbing motions at the air. "Cold fish."

"I don't think that's what you _really_ mean to say," the End started, before getting cut off.

"I don't need any romantic rumors floating around this compound about me, thanks," Joy said icily, turning to face Fear and glaring. "I'd rather be called a cold fish than a whore. No, shut your mouth, Fear. That is _exactly_ what would start going around if I was out with some random _somebody_ who didn't even ask me in the first place. You know how it goes."

"Who says it has to be _some random somebody_?" Fury said, rolling his eyes. "You could go with me or Fear if you wanted, we wouldn't complain. Or you could take the Pain – he's a natural conversation-starter. Hell, take Sorrow. He's been looking pretty mopey ever since the weather brightened up."

"There's no need to talk about me like I'm not here," the Sorrow said, folding his arms tightly. "And I agree with the Joy. She shouldn't have to go with anyone if she doesn't have to. It's probably better if she doesn't, so that she looks more independent."

"See? That's exactly my point," she said, crossing her arms too. Why hadn't _she_ thought of that? Damned beautifully quick mind of his. "I don't need a man standing over my shoulder the whole time, or it'll nullify my entire point."

The Fear exchanged exasperated looks with the Fury and the Pain before throwing up his arms in defeat. "Fine. Go all by yourself, Madam Officer. Be miserable. Trust me, you'll be bored to tears within twenty minutes."

"Says you," Joy grumbled.

_4 July, 1943_

She was bored to tears.

The Joy, currently alias Staff Sergeant Alexandra Marshall, had been making idle conversation with two brainless, dateless young women for about fifteen minutes now, and she was starting to fantasize about stabbing one of the three of them with the knife concealed in her lower back holster. That, and trying to think of the worst curse words possible to use on the Fear when he gave her that smug look, that she _knew_ was coming, and asked if the ball had proved amusing. Idiot. Also, she had just remembered why she was supposed to have been yelling at the Sorrow, and really wished she had been able to do it _before_ she came so that she could at least have had results to think about – because he most definitely owed her an explanation. It would have to be a _good_ o…

Oh, no.

"May I cut in, ladies?" the End said with a polite smile, taking her by the elbow and starting to pull her aside before she really knew what was happening.

"Uncle Theo, how nice to see you," Joy said, forcing the most natural smile she could summon up. _What was he doing here, and what was he wearing._ "Please excuse me, girls. My great-uncle…" The excuse was half true, at least. His name _was _Theodore, and it _was_ nice to see him.

"No one else is coming, if that's what you're worried about," End said nonchalantly, pulling her over to the side of the room. "Excuse me, young man, if I could –"

"It's no problem, sir!" The young officer in the chair he wanted jumped up from his seat with a smart salute before being hailed and promptly captured by one of the dateless girls. Poor thing.

The End chuckled and sat down, motioning for her to sit next to him. "Age has its advantages."

Joy…Alexandra…Joy…see, now she was getting herself muddled. Calling him Uncle Theo was half triggering a flashback to her combat training, when they would go up on the roof and snipe at pigeons for the hell of it. _Whoever_ she was right now, she was torn between relief at who had rescued her and horror at the cut of his clothes. "End," she whispered through gritted teeth, "how old, exactly, is that outfit?"

"Let's just say that the Royal Army made me a present of it after a few rather _decisive_ hits I made at Kandahar," he said serenely. "You ought to be grateful that I chose not to wear the turban." _Oh my god, thank you God that he did not wear the turban._ "It's not falling apart yet, so I saw no problem with saving it all these years. Make do and mend, my dear. No one else is going to mind, I promise you." The End adjusted his collar proudly. "I rather think it makes me look quite distinguished, actually. Everyone has been _very_ respectful so far."

"Well, at least it's a uniform," she sighed, thankful to not have to deal with balancing in heels any longer. "Thank you for getting me out of that, anyway. I thought I was going to have to fake my own death."

"Why do you think I only stayed married for five years, Alexandra?" he said, amused. "Although, now I have to put up with being the putative expert on persons of the opposite sex."

"You'll get over it," Alexandra said, trying awkwardly to sit like a lady. Something didn't feel quite…_Ankles. You cross your legs at the ankles._ The Joy quickly adjusted her posture. "Hey, _Uncle Theo_, since you're the expert now – why is it that I can never find the Sorrow when I'm looking for him?"

Theodore raised one eyebrow. "Will it sound flippant if I say that it's because he doesn't _want_ you to find him?"

"Yes. Yes, it does," she said huffily. _I wanted to know **why** he doesn't want me to find him._ "You're no help at all."

"Young people today…you ask for the truth and then you blame someone else when you don't like the answer."

"Stop it with the all-knowing look, Lieutenant MacArthur."

"It's not me, Sergeant Marshall, I swear. My beard has a mind of its own."

"Yeah, right."

Upon meeting the Joy in the hall as she stumbled back to her room later that night, shoes and stockings in hand, the Fear looked at her smugly. "So? Was the ball _amusing_?"

"I got along all right," she said, shooting the smug look right back. "_And_…we have another assignment. Apparently my presence was enough to remind the base commander that we are still taking up space in his east wing, and he was kind enough to hand me some orders that have been (ahem) _lost_ on his desk for about two weeks now. We leave for Italy tomorrow, so go tell the others to start packing."

So much she had to do, she thought as she pushed past him and headed back toward the dormitories. So much that she had to organize. Joy could have been angry at the commander for not passing their mission along until the last minute, but it would have been counterproductive. Life was good. She could forget all about wanting to be a normal girl again, drop back into the excitement of the mission ahead - the Joy was back in her element now. She only had one more loose end to tie up before they could ship out of this place for good.

The Sorrow was _not_ going to keep hiding from her forever.


	5. July 4, 1943 - Madam Commander

_A/N: I almost scrapped this chapter halfway through in favor of an alternate ending to the Independence day mini-arc, partly because my romantic writing isn't that great – but mostly because this isn't a romance fic. It's just a wild guess, but I'm thinking you guys aren't reading this for the smooches. But then I reread it, and I remembered that sexual tension and humor are not actually mutually exclusive…even if the humor in question __**is**__ rather juvenile. So, um, try not to spit {food/drink of choice} on your keyboard when the phrase "So tell me to come in" comes up in a (supposedly) totally unrelated conversation. And if you don't like smooches in your funnies, feel free to skim the ending. There's only two paragraphs' worth anyway. And I've already started the next chapter, so I can assure you that I really am abandoning the Serious Business and getting back to funnies next._

The ball would not end until quite late in the night, so he was safe for now. The Sorrow knew that his commander was going to come try to find him again – but he had time. Not to quietly duck out of the room, this time, but to at least put up a shield so that she would simply forget what she had come for, say good night, and go. That had proved to be the most effective strategy in recent months, as much as it taxed his psychic strength. The End was getting very suspicious, but of course the End noticed everything. It was also possible that the Fear was putting the pieces together, but he was the only other possible complication. The Fury never noticed anything at all, and the Pain still didn't seem quite at ease around Sorrow, so it was highly unlikely that he made any connections between the Joy turning her attention on the Sorrow and Sorrow suddenly going a little bit…blank. It was almost a _don't notice me_ field, something he had worked very hard to develop back in Dachau. The guard looks at you, anger and cruelty in his face, and then he turns away, no longer quite able to think of what he had been planning to do to you today. That was a simple explanation, but the actual feat was very complex in both theory and application. As far as Sorrow could tell, it was his only power that had anything to do with influencing other people – but that was a good thing. His powers were in high enough demand from enough desperate potentates to make him _very_ uneasy at times. But at least within the Cobras he was safe. As long as Joy didn't…

A knock came at the door. "_Sorrow_. We need to talk."

Sorrow pressed his lips together so that he would curse in his head and not out loud. He wasn't ready to face Joy, not now and not like this. He wasn't even sure that _she_ was ready to face _him_. Christós…it wasn't that he didn't trust her to make her own decisions, of course, but –

"I know you're in there, so you can either come open the door or I'll let _myself_ in."

"Thanks for the choice," he muttered to himself, before adding aloud, "It's not locked."

There was a pause. "So you're saying, come in."

"I'm saying if you want to come in _that_ badly, it's not like I'm stopping you."

"That's not the same as "come in"."

"It didn't sound like you were asking for my permission, so I didn't feel the need to give it."

"Well, can I have it?"

"Have what?"

"Your permission."

The corners of Sorrow's mouth quirked a little at that request, and his annoyance melted a little. Did she really feel that reluctant to exercise her rights over him as unit commander? She just barged in on everyone else. Just like watching her run around looking for him, it meant he was failing overall at trying to mitigate his effect as a distraction to her, but…it amused him. While he was being honest with himself, he might as well admit that it was sort of flattering, too. "Why?"

Joy glared at the door. She had been through way, _way_ too much shit tonight to deal with Sorrow suddenly getting coy with her on top of it. "Because it's the goddamn polite thing to do, that's why. So tell me to come in!"

"Mm. No."

"Is that a "No, you can't come in," or a "No, I'm not going to tell you to come in"?"

"It's whatever you want it to be."

"Give me a goddamn answer, Sorrow."

"That _is_ my goddamn answer, Joy."

"Well…well, fuck you!" she said, throwing her shoes down in frustration.

His instinctive comeback, which luckily did not make it out of his mouth, was _That would be kind of hard with the door in the way_. Damn it, he was supposed to be _discouraging_ her! "Ever the lady, I see," he substituted, blushing hard and completely failing at a sarcastic tone. Bad Sorrow. Very bad.

"_Shut up._ Why do you think I'm _asking_ your permission?"

"I don't know, Joy. It's extremely out of character for you – normally you just _take_ what you want."

"_Would you just let me in!_"

"I _said_ it was unlocked."

"_Fine_!" The Joy wrenched the door open and stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. "Can I come in now?"

The Sorrow glanced up from the book he was pretending to read as he sat stretched out on his bed, just long enough to check her expression, before returning to the pages of…what was this, anyway? He'd forgotten entirely…it was in German, so maybe it was the philosophy book the End had been asking if he was ever going to return. "The door's open, Joy. You _are_ in."

She glared at him. "My feet are still in the hallway, Sorrow. Whether or not the door's open doesn't count if I'm not actually standing in your room."

"All right, then, so you're not in here," he said, closing his book so he didn't have to keep staring at the faint print. He probably should have just let her in to start with, as she looked madder than he'd seen her in quite a while and was probably going to punch him in the face the minute she got within an arm's length. _Jób_.

"Well, then?" Joy snapped. "Can I come in and _talk_ to you, or am I just going to be yelling at you from your doorway all night?"

"I seem to recall you saying that you were going to come in whether I wanted you to or not," he said, getting up and turning his back to her to put the book up on the shelf. "So –"

"Irritated" was no longer the proper term for how the Joy was feeling right now. Neither was "angry". Was this what the Fury felt like _all_ the time? If so, well then _God_, no wonder he was so messed up. Well, invited or not, she was going to get this _over_ with _now_. She stormed in, letting the door swing shut behind her, and then grabbed the Sorrow by the upper arms and spun him around to face her in one movement. "_Stop avoiding me._"

"It's kind of hard to, when you're holding on to me this tightly," he said, staring down at her with a strange look on his face.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" she snarled. "I'm not going to hit you, I like your face too much."

"Yes, you do," he said, still holding that look. She couldn't pin it down. There was anxiety in it –audacity - and as always, a touch of sorrow. He never could let go of that. She wanted him to let go of that sorrow, just for a minute. "I think you like the rest of me too much, too."

"So what if I do?" she said, an angry flush coming to her cheeks. "That's my business."

The Sorrow shook his head. "It's everyone's business. Joy, you have to be impartial. You've been letting yourself get distracted by your feelings, and if you –"

"Sorrow," Joy hissed, shaking him hard, "we are the _god damned Cobras_. We _are_ our feelings. We don't hide them, we _use_ them to become more powerful than the enemy could ever imagine. And that includes _you_, Mr. Don't-Let-Me-Distract-You." She was starting to see how this had all started. Everything was falling into place. "Just admit it, why don't you?"

"Admit what?" he said, his pale face going even paler.

The Joy yanked him down by the arms and crushed her lips against his. He was right about one thing – if she wanted something, sooner or later it was going to be hers. Preferably, sooner. Then she felt him try to pull away, and the twenty-year-old girl in her who had been dominant for most of the evening suddenly began to panic. Maybe she had miscalculated. Maybe there was something she had missed. And besides, there were probably about a hundred reasons she shouldn't be doing this at all…none of which she really cared about except that _maybe he didn't like it_. After that first terrifying second, however, his resistance softened and he folded his arms around her carefully, like a girl with a porcelain doll. She softened her grip too, relief washing over her. At the very least, he didn't _mind_.

The Sorrow was shocked more than anything else when she kissed him. That, he had somehow not seen coming. His first instinct was to jerk back from it - this was all wrong, they shouldn't be getting _involved_ like this – but she was right. She was always right. Joy had trained the Cobras to weaponize their feelings and their emotions, and this…was at least _part_ emotion, wasn't it? She would find a way to use that if anybody could. So he could accept this, at least for this one moment. She slipped her arms around his neck and he adjusted slightly as well, tasting her lipstick and taking in the rare smell of something that wasn't gunpowder, mud, or grease. It tempted him toward the fantasy that she was not his commander, that he'd never been shoved into the army at all, and that this was going to be the fulfillment of his mother's dreams that her only son would grow up and marry a lovely girl and have about nine or ten children to continue his father's disappearing family line. But, let's face it – he didn't even know her name. And he probably never would. Sorrow…that was what he felt, and was, and would always be.

Joy pulled away at what felt like icy water running down her back. "Idiot boy," she said, glaring at him. _That was your emotions that I just felt._ "Why won't you let me _love_ you?"

"You can't call me a boy, _dévochka_," he said, hoping to use her frustration to make her forget she'd even asked the question. "I'm _years_ older than you."

"I'm your commander and I'll call you anything I want," she said, kissing him again, hard, angrily. "And call me a little girl again, and as much as it pains me to injure something so pretty, I swear to God I'll pop you in the face."

That sounded more like the Joy he was used to, and it made him smile. "Understood, Madam Commander."

"Good." She pulled out of his arms and walked away, picking up her stockings as she went. "Oh, and get yourself packed, Sorrow. They finally remembered I'm still here, so the Cobras are back in business. Breakfast at 600 hours and then we're shipping out."

"Where to?" he asked – not that it mattered. They would follow her to hell if they had to, and he knew that she knew it.

"Italy. Some resistance party's gone and got themselves in a jam," the Joy said, all business again despite the considerable damage her composure had just taken. "Honestly, I don't know what the Allies would do without us."

Sorrow sighed darkly. "I'd rather not find out. Take care of yourself, won't you?"

"It's not me I'm worried about," she said, almost tripping over her shoes before she remembered to reclaim those too. Like she'd said yesterday…she did _not_ need rumors floating around. "Get some sleep. You look like you've been dragging yourself through hell."

The explanation of how close she had just hit to the truth could wait. "All right, all right. You too."

Joy turned at the door and poked her head back in before she finished closing it. "Oh, and we are _not_ done with this conversation. Just so you know."

"Warning duly noted."

She dragged herself back to her own room and fell into bed, tired from the pretenses of the ball and still trying to think of everything she had to get in place before tomorrow. A jumble of words was running through her head – she couldn't seem to keep them straight. A gun manual she had been reading last week, the exact wording of the assignment the commander had handed her just an hour before…oh, and that stupid Helen Forrest song, the one they had played about a thousand times because it was some lonely heart's favorite. _I had the craziest dream last night_…

The Joy was starting to wish it had just been some crazy dream, but Alexandra wanted it to be true with all her heart.


	6. October 1945 - Is It Tasty?

_A/N: (trite excuse about studying for exams and writing final papers) (Everyone else: Yeah, yeah, we know. We're all in exam week too. Why do you think we're reading this right now?) _

_To Clare, who IS reading it for the smooches: others can and probably will happen as the series goes by, so don't turn that dial.:3 And to lia, thank you very much for the compliments on those parts of writing closest to my heart.*deep bow* Yes, more is on the way! _

_To my one Russian reader, whoever you are…PLEASE call me out on anything I screw up, no matter how small. I need to know. Also, I'm really sorry about all that swearing in the first chapter. And you guys, feel free to PM me if you happen to be interested in the actual recipe that inspired this chapter, which I got from the once-again-amazing Professor Mozur. It's DELICIOUS._

_One more note: Yes, an ordinary wood fire does in fact get hot enough for uncompressed gunpowder to explode, and black powder has indeed been used as a salt substitute. I am not making this up._

_October 1945  
_

For reasons best known only to The Joy (and she wasn't talking), the Cobra Unit was currently camped out in the wilds of Southern Russia. They were used to taking their commander's orders on faith, but there was still something slightly unsettling about just…waiting here, with no hint of what they were supposed to be doing. She would disappear all day and come back into camp exhausted, then leave again before the sun was up next morning. In fact, by now they were pretty sure that it was _her_ mission, and that they were only there as backup. Once target practice got old – as she had once said, their marksmanship was too good to be doing anything but wasting bullets on squirrels for the hell of it – and the one hundredth game of cards had been played – The Fear was counting – really, what else was there to do?

"I don't know about you, but I am _sick_ and _tired_ of these stupid ration packs," the Fury complained. "You know what they're good for? _This_ is the only thing they're good for!" he said, hurling his across their clearing at the Fear, who laughed and jumped onto a low branch effortlessly. The ration was not so lucky.

"It looks like you're not getting any lunch, Fury," the Pain said, poking the pieces of the shattered…whatever it was…with his boot. He had actually been thinking of doing the same thing, if he wasn't so damn hungry. It didn't look like food, it didn't smell like food, and it certainly didn't taste like food. He would _never_ have believed it to be edible if his commander hadn't assured them that it was, indeed, actual food and meant to be eaten.

"I wasn't going to anyway," Fury said. "Because you know what? I refuse to eat those from now on. I'll _starve_, if I have to!"

"Oh, _no_," the Fear said, swinging from his branch. "You're bad enough when you're _not_ grumpy from hunger."

The End shook his head. "Calm down, calm down. Nobody's going to starve, here."

"Easy for you to say," Fury grumbled. "All you have to do is sit in the sun for a few hours a day, and you're just peachy!"

"I think he means," the Sorrow said, "that we're surrounded by typical food as well. _Think_ about it, Fury." Sorrow leveled a look at the Fury that made him shut his mouth as quickly as he had opened it. "Here we are, in a forest populated by all kinds of fauna, with _how_ many guns, again?"

"Twelve traditional firearms of varying types," Fear said, fully upside-down and standing on his hands now, "one portable flamethrower, six grenades…and about a kilogram of Nobel 808."

"We are _not_ using the 808 on the squirrels!" the Fury screamed. "We'd be left with nothing but charred, furry smears on the trees! And do you _know_ how long I've been saving that?! No, no, don't answer that. You've probably been counting the days, and _I don't want to know_."

"How poetically tragic," Pain said, sighing wistfully. "Our glorious fireball of a hero, heartbroken over an unused case of plastic explosives."

The Fury threw himself down on a fallen log and buried his face in his hands. "Yes, yes, very poetic. Why don't you put it in a haiku, to convince our commander that we are bored to _fucking tears_ out here."

"Maybe I _will_. But…she doesn't know Japanese, though, does she?"

"Hell if I know…Oh, hey! Sorrow, maybe you should find something to cry about when she finally gets back tonight. You know, be _literally_ bored to fu-"

"_Or_ we could do something constructive," Sorrow cut in, annoyed and slightly pink. "Finding something to eat, for example."

The Pain groaned. "I thought we already decided that squirrel meat wasn't worth the effort."

"Pain…there's a rabbit right behind you," the End said with a small sigh. "Not to mention the other rabbit two meters away from the Sorrow, the covey of quail under that bush over there, and the deer about fifteen meters upwind of us. You are _not_ restricted to squirrels."

The Fury perked up a little and got up to start a fire. "I like the sound of deer."

Fear poked his head out from further up his tree, suddenly grinning. "End's right, you know. Here, give me my crossbow. That deer'll never know what hit it. And what about that abandoned house we found the second day?"

Pain blinked in confusion. "What about it?"

"It's got a root cellar. Think there's still anything in it?"

There was only one way to find out…

About forty-five minutes later, the Fury was casting a doubtful look over the vegetables the Sorrow was peeling with a trench knife, while the Fear was happily working away at cutting up his catch with the Pain's help. (The End was staunchly refusing to take part, having conveniently declared himself vegetarian again.) "I _guess_ you can call it a vegetable stew, Sorrow, but it is most definitely _not_ going to be real borsch."

Sorrow looked up at Fury in annoyance, almost slicing his thumb open with the overlarge knife while distracted. "And why not? Cabbage, potatoes, carrots, and beets – plus a little meat, since we got lucky with the deer…that is _all_ you need for real borsch."

"Hmph. _Real_ borsch has tomatoes."

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Just because that's how _your_ mother made it…"

"Grandmother!"

"Whatever."

"_Would you stop it with the Russian already!_" Fear yelled across the camp. "If I've asked you once, I've asked you a thousand times…Pain, what are they saying?"

"They're just arguing," the Pain said in an attempt to pacify him.

"Well, I figured _that_ much," the Fear said sarcastically. "Hey, don't cut so shallow there, we'll lose half the haunch! Yeah, more like that, just next to the bone."

"The real question," Sorrow said, continuing in Russian despite Fear's objections, "is what we are going to cook it _in_."

"Well, the Pain _never_ uses his helmet..."

"That's much too small, look at all this."

"Two or three helmets, then. We can wash 'em out easily enough."

The Sorrow made a face. "No thanks. There are some things that just don't wash out, and that hair cream that you and the Fear insist on using is one of them."

"Hey, come on, I haven't used that stuff since we left base!"

"And yet, your hair looks the same as ever…."

"I also haven't _washed_ my hair since we left base," Fury said pointedly.

"Thank you for telling me something that I will now try my very hardest to forget," Sorrow said, wrinkling his nose.

"What about the case we've been lugging the munitions around in?" Pain piped up. "That's metal, and pretty big. Watertight, too."

Fury and Sorrow looked at each other. "Gunpowder washes out, right?" the Sorrow asked cautiously. "Even the smokeless stuff?"

"Like a charm," Fury assured him.

To make a long story short, it did indeed wash out like a charm…if by "charm" you mean "sudden explosion".

"Now you see why I insisted we test it on the fire _before_ adding the actual food," Sorrow growled, wiping soot off of his glasses.

"Hey, a little powder never hurt anyone," Fury protested. "My granddad even used to use it when we couldn't get salt."

"Well, now we know where you get your explosive personality from," Pain said with a rare chuckle. Everyone else snickered along, except for the Sorrow, who was busy checking that he still had both his eyebrows. _Note to self: never get that close to any kind of fire built by the Fury again._

"Look, I'm sorry," the Fury said, not sounding contrite at all. "What really matters is that now we have something big enough to cook in. It's even preheated."

"Just go get me some water so we can start cooking the venison," Sorrow said, putting his glasses back on huffily.

"All right, all right…this had better work out, Sorrow, because I am _hungry_."

The next hour or so passed with Sorrow and Fury taking turns poking the munitions case's new contents and arguing over, among other things, the temperature of the fire, and when exactly it was advisable to add the dill that the End had found them, and whether they needed to put it in at all. "Well…" the Sorrow said finally, giving the borsch a cautious stir with his knife, "I think it's done."

The Fury leaned over to smell the soup. "Doesn't look too bad…I guess."

"Is this one of those "acquired taste" things?" the Fear said, torn between pride in having actually supplied food and reluctance to try something so utterly new.

"Whatever it tastes like, it's _got_ to be better than those rations," the Pain said, taking a look inside the makeshift pot. "Damn, you two, do you think you made _enough_ of that?"

"Hey, it's got to last. I am _not_ cooking with him again anytime soon," Sorrow grumbled.

"Me neither," Fury said. "Control freak."

"_Control freak?_ Remind me again who it was that kept going on about tomatoes!"

"_What the hell are you boys doing?!_"A collective "Oh, shit" appeared on the Cobra Unit's faces as the Joy stormed into camp a full three hours earlier than she usually did, looking like she was ready to rip someone to shreds. "Is it _that hard_ to understand "_Don't make yourselves conspicuous"_? I _know_ one of you set off that explosion! Why don't you just send up a signal flare shaped like a _goddamn cobra_ while you're at it!" They all looked at each other uncomfortably, unsure how to respond.

"Uh…"

"Well…"

"What happened was…"

The Fury and the Sorrow pointed at each other. "It was totally his fault."

"Was not!" Sorrow said, turning on Fury. "You said it would all wash out!"

"Well, it wasn't me doing the washing!"

"And it wasn't me building that _inferno_ either!"

Joy threw up her hands. "Stop. Stop, stop, stop, shut up, all of yo…" She leaned to one side and screwed up her face a little. "…is that the _munitions case_ over that fire?"

Pain looked uncomfortable. "That part was my idea, Commander. It was the only thing big enough…it's just, Sorrow couldn't get all of the gunpowder out of it, and once it dried out over the fire…"

"It just happened to be burning a little too hot, that's all," Fury said defensively. "I'm not used to working with wood."

The Joy was already pushing them aside and walking over to the fire pit. "You were _cooking_?"

"Well, you know…a man can only eat so many prepackaged rations before he starts to go insane," the Fear said, already halfway up a tree again in case she decided to take a swing at him.

"Same goes for a woman," Joy muttered, folding her hands behind her back and leaning over to take a good look at the inside of the case. "Hmph. I suppose I ought to be glad that you lot were doing _something_ constructive today." The rest of the unit remained silent, fidgeting nervously. "…well?" she said grumpily, straightening up. "Residual gunpowder aside, how did it turn out?"

"We, uh, haven't tasted it yet," the Fury said uneasily.

The Joy stuck out her hand expectantly. "Well, then. Spoon." Sorrow handed one over, very pale. Borsch was one of the hardest things he knew to get wrong, but with limited supplies and the constant bickering over ingredients, they might just have managed it. She skimmed a little off the top and took on a thoughtful look as she let it sit in her mouth for a moment. "Hmm."

The Fury poked the Sorrow nervously. "…is that a good hmm, or a bad hmm?"

"Can't tell yet," he whispered, looking scared.

Joy swallowed and turned back to her unit, giving Fury and Sorrow a half-amused, half-exasperated look. "Well, I'm not giving either of you KP duty anytime soon, but it's about a hundred times better than rations, so I suppose you're forgiven for the mess with the gunpowder. Just _don't_ do it again - and you both get to take the night watch again." They nodded meekly. "…and Fear, get out of that tree before you turn into a _real_ spider. I need you and the End for a mission as soon as it gets dark, and we can't have that."

"First or second watch?" the Fury asked the Sorrow miserably as everyone started to relax again. "Your choice. It pretty much _was_ my fault."

"Eh…it was my fault too, at least a little," Sorrow sighed. "I guess I'll take second, so you can at least get a solid chunk of sleep tonight."

"Or is it so you can be awake when the Commander gets back, hm?"

"Shut up and eat your soup, Fury."


	7. March 1946 - Hair's Looking At You

_A/N: Blah blah exams blah blah Christmas parties blah blah sister blah blah threw off my groove, sorry. Yay for another midnight posting! Also, yay for unprecedented word count. o_o_

Ра́дость моя /_Rádos' moy = my Joy. Remember this one, as it amuses him to call her that. Otherwise, I'm experimenting with cutting back on the gratuitous Russian. The in-story explanation is that Sorrow knows better by this point than to antagonize Fear when he's holding pointy objects. __**Reviews, please?**__ I'd like feedback on my habit of using foreign languages for flavor. Usually nobody minds because I've yet to meet a _Les Misérables_ fan who doesn't know at least a __**little**__ French, but this is kind of different. _

[_The inspiration_: I attempted to dye my hair the same color as Joy's last night, but since my natural hair is a very dark brown, it, uh…well…I'm still not blonde. So, being a mature and well-adjusted adult with the capability to handle life's little disappointments, I decided to do the most mature and well-adjusted thing I could think of: take it out on the closest fictional character.]

[_The scene_: a TOTALLY classified Army base where the Cobras seem to have been stuck just long enough to get bored…again. I really need to work on getting them some more action scenes.]

"No. No. Absolutely _not_!"

"I can't believe you don't trust me with something as simple of a pair of scissors, after all that we've been through together in battle…"

"My friend, that is _exactly_ why I don't trust you with _anything _sharp _anywhere near my head_."

The Fear pulled a face at The Sorrow and tossed the scissors down points-first, narrowly avoiding their feet. "Fine, then! Cut your own damn hair!"

Sorrow picked the scissors up and put them on the table, scowling back. "Maybe I will! You could stand to have a little cut off yourself, you know."

Fear rolled his eyes up to check and blew a wayward strand out of his face. "What, this? I've got _my_ hair completely under control, Sorrow-boy. It stays slicked back pretty well in between the weekly trims."

"_Weekly?_ You are insane."

The Fear ran a hand through his hair with a grin, checking himself out in the mirror next to the chair Sorrow was sitting in. "Hey, I've got to keep up my good looks while I've still got 'em. You ought to see the heads turn when I stroll by the WAC HQ on my way to the mess hall. This kind of look's all the fury."

Sorrow raised an eyebrow at him. "The – what?"

"The fury…I mean the _rage_," Fear laughed. "All the rage. _Dios_, I hate English!"

"Well, there are two possible solutions to that: you can learn Russian, or we can all learn Esperanto."

Fear stopped primping to think for a moment. "Hey, Esperanto sounds good. It would almost be like having our own secret code language."

"Fear, I was _joking_." He'd forgotten that The Fear _never_ got his humor – actually, it was more likely that he _did_ get it, but found it amusing to pretend that he didn't, probably because he got a kick out of forcing The Sorrow to explain. "You _do_ realize that Esperanto is very possibly the _worst_ language we could use for a "secret code," right?" he said, leveling an exasperated look at him. "Let's see - the Germans, Spanish, and Japanese all know it; the Italians not only know it but use it for official propaganda; and on our side, Stalin has _banned_ it…"

"Also, I already tried learning Esperanto, and it made absolutely no sense," The Joy said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. "If we're going to have our own language, it has to be something we can _understand_, that being the entire point of having a langua..." She suddenly noticed the scissors on the table and let out a small groan. "Oh, god, is it that time of year _already_?"

"I will _never_ understand why you two are so resistant to basic maintenance," the Fear said, shaking his head. "Joy, you're nothing _but_ split ends. If you would just take off a little every month or so, instead of ten centimeters once a year…"

"I happen to have much higher priorities than my _appearance_," she said irritably. "Unlike _some_ of us. And I think you know who I'm talking about, given that The Fury's switched to a butch cut since that last flamethrower backdraft incident."

"It's just a little Brylcreem! Okay, maybe a lot. You just don't understand, Joy."

Joy folded her arms and shook her head. "Fear, I really think you would make a better woman than I do, sometimes."

"You are a _perfectly_ good woman, _Rádos' moy_," Sorrow said, turning to frown at her. "Whatever girls Fear is fishing for couldn't hope to be _half_ the woman you are."

The Joy blushed and giggled – wait, wait, what alien planet had The Fear just been transported to? What was this girlish creature, and what had she done with his hardboiled, rough-and-ready commander? He could mentally process most aspects of whatever it was that those two were calling their relationship, but his unit leader suddenly turning _giggly_ at random moments was a little more than he could handle. Luckily, his mouth tended to work on autopilot, smirk included. "Joy, you could have just _said_ you like his hair better that way – I'd have put the scissors right down. I mean, whatever you say goes."

"Mm, I don't know," she said, totally ignoring his wisecrack and leaning down to take a good look at The Sorrow's hair. "It _is _a little long and unruly, I suppose, but if you let it go a little longer, then you could pull it back and it would be out of your way again." She giggled a little again, partly at the thought of Sorrow with a ponytail and partly at the "mind broken" look it brought to The Fear's face. "They used to do that in the European armies, you know."

"If by 'used to', you mean '200 years ago', then yes, yes they did," Sorrow grumbled. "You know what? Fear, I changed my mind. Cut it off - cut it _all_ off. In fact, go get The Fury's clippers. Don't even bother tapering it, just do the whole thing on a 1A."

"Don't you _dare_!" The Joy said, suddenly dropping her sweet look angrily and snatching the scissors out of Fear's hand. "You are _not_ getting your head shaved, by God, _no_. Give me those, Fear, let me do it." She twirled the scissors in her hand like a throwing knife until she got her fingers situated and then started snipping away furiously with a surgeon's precision, if not a barber's skill.

"I wish you'd stop teasing her like that," The Fear hissed at a smug-looking Sorrow as piece after piece of his hair fell victim to Joy's blades and plummeted to the floor. "It's just _weird_."

"I can still hear you, Fear," she said, momentarily lifting her eyes from her task. "And if you think the way I feel about him is as disturbing as all that, you can go…" She looked back down and suddenly stopped cutting, eyes wide. "…_fuck._"

Sorrow screwed his eyes closed, fearing the worst. "Joy…what did you do."

"Nothing."

"That didn't _sound_ like nothing."

"Can I see?" The Fear said, moving around to try to get a look.

Joy just swiveled the chair out of his view. "There's nothing to see. It's just going to be….a little _different_ than the style he had before."

"_How_ different?" Sorrow said uneasily.

She started snipping again, biting her lip slightly in concern. "Just different enough to be interesting. I promise."

He closed his eyes tightly again as bits of hair started falling into them. "Just promise me we're not _actually_ going to need Fury's clippers."

"I…can't promise that."

"Maybe you should let The Fear do it after all?" Sorrow suggested tentatively.

Joy stopped, put her hand on her hip, and turned his chair around so that he was facing her. "Mikhail, who do you trust more – Fear, or me?"

Sorrow stared up at her and prayed for divine intervention so that he wouldn't actually have to answer that question. Unfortunately, none proved to be forthcoming. "Well…I mean of _course_ I trust you, _Rádos'_, but..."

"Good." She spun him back around and resumed clipping with a look of increased concentration. Personally, Fear thought it was pretty funny. He'd never thought that The Joy's obsession with controlling all variables as tightly as possible would extend to something as simple as her man's haircut – but then again, it had always been excruciatingly obvious who was in charge _there_. "Um, Fear," Joy said suddenly, as she stepped back to take a look at the bigger picture "…be a dear, and go borrow those clippers, would you?"

"I was _joking_ about the clippers!" The Sorrow yelped as The Fear went off to get them, snickering to himself.

"Oh, hush, it's only for the nape of your neck. I'm going to have to taper it so it doesn't look unbalanced," she said, stepping closer again and trying to even up the back of his head as best as she could. "Well…it's a good thing it's spring, I guess."

Sorrow rolled his eyes, trying not to look at the mirror next to him or down at the uncomfortably large pile of grey hair on the floor. "I see, so now I get to get seasonal cuts, like a horse?"

"I said _hush_, you." Joy brushed enough hair off one spot on his neck to kiss it gently. "It'll grow out."

"By the feel of things, my head is going to be very cold in the meantime," he said, turning with a sigh and kissing her back. "No, don't just tell me to wear a hat. It's not the same."

"Your hair grows fast, it'll thicken up nicely by winter," she said with a grin, using her fingers to sweep some more hair off his cheeks. "Until then, just think of how _fashionable_ you're going to be while it lasts." Well - hopefully not _too_ fashionable…she didn't need some cute little skirt from the women's auxiliary trying to up and steal _her_ Sorrow. Joy made a mental note to tell The Fear to go on distracting them as thoroughly as possible.

"The fashion is stupid," he said, annoyed but unable not to smile at the look on her face. "And what is so amusing?"

"Mm, I was just considering the best way to discourage any girls who might take a shine to you now that you're not hiding behind all that hair," she said, turning to look at the scissors with a casual but slightly twisted smile.

"Shout for Joy, ye nations, for she rendreth vengeance to her enemies, hm?"

"Show-off. Close your eyes." She kissed his nose and quickly brushed as much loose hair off the sides of his head at once as she could. "No, no, don't open them yet. Not until I tell you to. Damn, that's a lot of hair…"

"Are you at least planning on apologizing?" Sorrow said, feeling slightly naked at the sudden loss of so much of his head cover.

"Only if I can't fix it," she said huffily. "And I _will_ fix it. So, no."

"Your consideration for my feelings is much appreciated, Madam Commander."

"Your appreciation for my consideration is duly noted, Specialist Tyannovich. All right, open your eyes now, I think that's it." The Sorrow opened his eyes to see The Joy looking at his face pensively. "Am I not supposed to ask about the scar on your forehead?"

"Huh? Oh, that one's fine. I've always had that one." He ran his fingers over it carelessly. "I got kicked by a cow, I think, because I wouldn't listen to my mother about not getting too close."

Joy suppressed a laugh. "A cow? That's _it_? Not even a motorcycle accident, or a stray bullet, or a knife slash from a jealous lover?"

"Yes, that's it. I'm sorry my past is not as _interesting_ as yours is, _Rádos' moy_."

She sighed and stood back, brushing the hair off of her arms. "No, no. Mine isn't interesting at all…yours at least has people in it." The Joy turned her head at a noise down the hall and sighed. "God…Fear, I told you to bring Fury's clippers, not the man himself!"

"He insisted," Fear said, slipping back beside The Sorrow to check out what Joy had managed to salvage of the haircut in his absence. "Hey, that's not so bad for your first try, boss! It even kind of suits him. It's still a little long, though."

"It is _not_ too long. It's the perfect length," Joy said, shooting him a glare.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being an experiment?" Sorrow grumbled.

"What did you _do_, Joy?" The Fury said, walking up with his kit in hand and an enormous grin on his face.

"Exactly what I meant to," she said, reddening a bit. "Just give me the clippers and I'll finish it up, all right?"

Fury chuckled and took Sorrow by the back of the head ("Do you _mind_?!"), turning it back and forth to check the cut. "No offense, Commander, but maybe I should take this leg of the mission. I'm the only one here with the experience." ("I am _not_ a mission!") "Be quiet, I can't get a good look at the…uh…" The Fury trailed off, having just caught sight of the icicle-like stare Joy was sending his way as she dug through the box of clipper guards. "...uh…really nice job Joy did on the rest of your hair. Wow. That is a seriously good cut. You know, that looks like something off a recruitment poster for the…what does the US call them? The Marines."

"Nice try, but I'm not taking the bait," Joy said, taking the clippers from his hand and fitting it with the #4 in the same graceful motion she used to load her weapons. Sorrow screwed his eyes shut again. _It's just hair, it's just hair, it's just hair..._ "It just needs a little evening out, and I should think even _I_ could handle that much. Besides, you'll cut it too short."

"And how short, exactly, is too short?"

She shot him another icy glare. "I know it when I see it."

"All right, all right," Fury said, backing off quickly. It might not be a traditional weapon, but she most definitely qualified as armed at the moment, and when Joy was armed and irritated you _did not cross her_.

..."Hey, you can open your eyes now."

"Is he still not looking?"

"Haha! Oh, come on, it's not _that_ bad!"

The Joy patted The Sorrow firmly on the shoulder with an apologetic grin. "Here, put your glasses back on. It's not what it used to be, but…it's actually kind of cute."

Sorrow took his glasses back and looked in the mirror uncertainly. Well…he still had a good bit of the hair on _top_ of his head, that could be combed down in front…and everything else did actually taper down fairly nicely, down to about…three centimeters, as far as he could see around the back. He could live with that. At least there wasn't skin showing through…he supposed that was something. Tentatively, he put his hand up to feel the back of his head and was relieved to feel something more substantial than stubble. It wasn't any shorter than what he could see in the mirror, and it would grow out fairly quickly, too. "Fine," he sighed, running one hand over his head to brush off what was left of the loose hairs. "I guess you don't have to apologize for it, Joy. But I had _better_ not have to get this cut again for at least five or six years, all right?"

"It's a deal," she said, grinning. "I might even let someone else do it. Maybe."

The Fear nudged The Fury, giggling. "Hey Joy, I think you're forgetting something."

She turned, hand on hip. "Really? What's that?"

"You still have to get your hair cut, too."

Five minutes later, Fear was holding a bag of ice to the side of his face and Fury was the one giggling. "I have _never_ seen her move that fast!" he said through laughter. "What, is she afraid of scissors or something?"

Sorrow sighed, still squinting at his reflection. He'd _liked_ having hair to hide behind…but it still almost reached his eyebrows, so that wasn't so bad. At least it wasn't as short as when he'd had it shaved in the camp and the laboratories. Joy just _did_ this kind of thing, he was starting to see – she left her mark on people. It just…usually wasn't this _literally_.

"No, really, Sorrow. Is she?"

"Huh?" He snapped out of his contemplation and looked up to see Fury grinning at him in the mirror and started to think out loud. "No, it's not the scissors. She…" He shut his mouth to stop the rest of the sentence from coming out and substituted, "probably just doesn't want to have to listen to the smart remarks from the rest of you lot. Especially after you tell The Pain - I'm sure he'll think it's hilarious."

"I was not going to tell him!" Fear mumbled as loudly as he could around his ice pack.

"Oh yes you were," Fury said, shoving him playfully.

_Actually, she does this give-and-take thing. She got to do what she liked to me, so…_

_Damn it, Joy. I can't cut hair either._


	8. Dec 10 - Let's Start The New Year Right

_A/N: Current headcanon places the formation of COBRA Unit in early January just after the formation of the United Nations, and their implementation in later January/early February with the arrival of the first American troops in Europe (subject to change with more research, as my core historical knowledge is in the Age of Revolution). So yes, they really ought to be getting along better by now. Poor Joy. She's got a lot on her hands, doesn't she?_

[_The inspiration_: This week is the start of the Coming of Christmas at the Werewolf household - we're German-type Catholics, so except for having a blast on St. Nicholas' Day, we try to keep things solemn during Advent and wait until Gaudete Sunday to really set up for the Christmas season itself.]

[_The scene_: Remember the first two chapters? Greece, Operation Harling, middle-of-effing-nowhere AKA the East Midlands? Good, because that's where we've returned. Told'ja there was gonna be timeskips.]

_December 10, 1942_

"What do you _mean_ we're iced in?!" The Joy followed Lieutenant Sullivan across the room as he tried to back out again casually without having to give her an answer.

"I mean exactly that, ma'am. We're iced in," he said, giving up and folding his hands behind his back nervously. "Heavy snow, too. Roads won't be navigable until the temperature comes up enough to melt it all."

"_At all_?"

"At all, ma'am, straight from here to Derby. They might be able to clear the road on their end, but at the moment, the bridge over the Trent is out as well."

"And of course there's only one airport in the whole district, which is on the _other side of the river_."

The Lieutenant shifted uneasily. "Well ma'am, there's not usually much call for more than one…"

Joy glared at him. "Lieutenant, I received orders yesterday from the _head of the OSS_ to have my unit on a plane out of that airport by tomorrow latest. Is there _nothing_ you can do?"

"…not much, no ma'am, it being on 'count of the weather."

She gritted her teeth for a moment and then sighed. "Well. Thank you for letting me know, Lieutenant. I'll be sure to send a message back informing him of the delay, ask him if there is any way he can perhaps send in a smaller plane to land directly around these parts, and in the meantime, we'll _just have to make the best of it_."

The Joy did not like having to make the best of anything, but damn it, if she had to, then she had to. On her way out, she noticed a little greenery above the doorframe – red berries – oh, right…Christmas. What was today, the tenth still? It seemed like the damn thing came earlier every year. Well…despite everything she'd tried, even after having almost a _whole year_ together, her unit still didn't seem to be quite meshing like she wanted them to. (See: Fury and Sorrow succeeding in putting each other in the hospital last week. Temporarily, but still. _Hospital_.) She wasn't exactly expecting _A Christmas Carol_, but at the very least, reminding them that there was a holiday coming up might save her from yet more moaning and groaning about having signed up for field work, not bench-warming duty…

"Joy," The Pain said uncertainly, "what is _that_?"

"_That_," she said briskly, shoving her prize into a bucket that had proved to be the perfect size for a stand, "is a Christmas tree. A small one, I admit, but it is, nonetheless, a Christmas tree."

He just blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand…is it an American thing?"

"…uh..." Damn it. She kept forgetting how many cultures she had to work around here. "I guess it's more of a Christian thing."

"_Oh_…." Pain only looked more confused. "So…it's the tree of the…uh, crucifixion?"

"No – um, it's…Christmas is about the _birth_ of Christ, and…just forget it, Pain, the tree really doesn't have much to do with the religious part. It's more like symbolism of new life in the dead of winter and hope for renewal in the spring and all that."

"So…it's like a _kadomatsu_?" It was The Joy's turn to stare at him blankly. "You put it up for year's-end, to honor the spirits of the ancestors so that they'll send blessings and a good harvest," he explained, looking pleased with himself for making a connection. "We used to set up pine _kadomatsu_ just like that one" (he pointed to the tree) "when I was growing up. The only thing is that you really ought to have two of them, but I don't think the _toshigami_ will mind. My ancestors have probably disowned me by now, anyway."

"Uh…sure," she said, not one bit enlightened on what were apparently some major points of East Asian religion. "Yeah. It's a _kado…motz. _Whatever makes you happy, Pain."

The Fury stood at the door, shaking hard-packed snow out of his boot treads. "Woah, woah, hang on, why is there a New Year tree up _already_, Joy? The last time I checked, 1942 doesn't end for another three weeks."

"Because it is _not_ a New Year tree," Joy sighed. Could this unit not find _one_ holiday they all agreed on? Stupid syncretizing Soviet secularists. _Say __**that**__ one five times fast, kid._ "It is a _Christmas_ tree."

"But even Christmas isn't until next month," The Sorrow said, looking up from a particularly complicated piece of his snowflakes.

Joy looked at him in exasperation. "Sorrow, how hard did The Fury hit you in the head? It's December already."

"I know that! Christmas is in _January_, Joy."

The two of them stared at each other in patent confusion for a few moments, until finally Joy spoke first. "…oh. You're Russian Orthodox, aren't you."

"Yes. What _else_ would I be?"

"No need to get smart with me," she grumbled. Just what she needed, somebody on the Julian calendar. She must _really_ have not been paying attention back around Easter. They had probably been too busy with the Heinen assassination…which made this whole conversation all the stranger. She couldn't speak for whatever spirituality The Pain had, but she was pretty sure that most of the major religions she knew weren't all that big on the kind of things her unit did on a regular basis. "What about you, Fury?"

"Nope. Socialist."

"Don't _you_ get smart with me either," she said, glaring. "That's not a religion, and you know it."

"Nietzschianist?"

"…_Fury_, that's not a religion either, that's a…" Joy sighed. "Never mind, that's close enough. Atheism with a side of superiority complex counts, I guess." She was _not_ liking the direction that this attempt at Christmas was taking.

"I do _not_ have a superiority complex," Fury muttered under his breath, unwilling to risk her full wrath again. "It's not _my_ fault that you all happen to be theistic sheep."

"I _heard_ that, Private Fury!" That was the third time she had "demoted" him in as many days, but somehow the humiliating and consequently mouth-sealing effect just kept working. That had to be one seriously tender sense of pride he had.

"Shouldn't this all be in our files?" Sorrow said, attempting to return to his stranded colorwork. "I know they asked me when I was formally recruited in."

"Yes, it should be. _However_, you would be surprised to know how much information in those files happens to be a little…stretched," The Joy said, giving a meaningful look to The Fear.

"Hey, it was _not_ my idea to put my nationality down as French," he said indignantly. "Believe me, I hate the French. I hate everything about them. I would rather die a _Spaniard_, even, than live a Frenchman."

She shook her head. "And yet, you signed a statement declaring yourself a Frenchman."

"I did not! _It was forged!_"

Joy closed her eyes tightly and counted to ten. _Bad Joy. _She had to set a good example and stop losing her temper so often. "…all right. Given the ramifications of that statement, which I am not sure that I can correctly process at the present moment, I am going to pretend you didn't say that, and return to the topic at hand. Forget religion. Do you at least _celebrate_ Christmas, Fear?"

"Of _course_ I do," he said indignantly. "Just not until the twenty-first. You've got to wait until _Santo Tomas_." Joy sighed. Right. Catholics and their regional variations of…saint things. Fear flicked his tongue out at The Sorrow. "And then Christmas comes on the twenty-fifth of _December_, so there, you schismatic son of a –"

"Do _any_ of you remember what I said a few days ago about _not actively antagonizing_ each other?" Joy snapped. "God!"

"Which one?" The End said, smiling wryly.

"Whichever one feels like listening," she said, exasperated. "I'm starting to get fed up with mine for inflicting _this_ lot on me!" The Joy was still Presbyterian. Sort of. When it suited her. (See: above comments about the kind of things her unit did.) "What about you, do _you_ care about the stupid tree?"

End shrugged slightly. "No harm can come of it, in my opinion. Humanity seeks comfort where it can, and you must admit that the evergreen is one of winter's most potently comforting symbols."

She shook her head. "No religious connotations at all? I could have sworn you were at least a Unitarian. Or do they not do Christmas either?"

"Not Unitarian; deist. There is an _enormous_ difference."

The Fury snickered a little. "I thought deism died out way back in the…" A strange came over his face. "Wait, how old _are_ you, End?"

The End smiled at him serenely. "That's classified information, Fury. The Fear is not the only one whose information is…how did our commander put it? Stretched."

Joy walked back over to her tree in the corner and sighed. It was only waist-high to The Pain, and it _really_ looked pathetic, especially now that nobody appreciated it except for her…and really, not even her. So much for holiday spirit. "Well, everyone? Should I just chuck it back outside, then, since we have all agreed that I'm the only one who's celebrating Christmas right now, if _ever_?"

"Hell, no!" Fury came over to look at it too, and lifted it up on top of a table. "Here, put it up on the shelf, there, so we can actually see it. It may not be New Year's yet, but a tree is a tree. Besides, we're leaving tomorrow, aren't we?"

Oops. "Actually…" Joy said, steeling herself for backdraft, "no. The bridge is out and the roads are iced over, so we're stuck until Donovan decides we're worth sending a plane after directly." Surprisingly, instead of erupting into the moaning and groaning she had been trying to prevent in the first place, her boys fell into a thoughtful silence.

"I guess we'll have to decorate it, then," Sorrow said, sticking his spare needle behind his ear like a pencil.

"Yeah, it's not like we can just leave the poor thing sitting there _naked_," Fear added. "We get to put candles on it, right?"

"_No_ candles," Joy said firmly, but relieved. "We can't even smoke inside, remember?" She felt like she would never understand these men. One minute they were arguing over what holiday it was and wasn't, and now they were all happily bonding over this pathetic little sapling she'd drug in for Christmas? She supposed it was just going to have to be a generic holiday tree now. Well, whatever kept them happy, right?

"Whatever else we put on it, it needs straw," The Pain said decisively. "A _kadomatsu_ has to have at least a _little_ straw wrapped around it, especially since we can't get bamboo here."

"No candles, then. Probably no fruit, either. What about cloves stuck in paper tape, or something?" The Fear pressed.

The Joy shook her head, accepting that this was just possibly going to be her strangest Christmas ever. "If you can find any, I guess…"

"I'm off to raid the kitchen, then, Commander! I'll try to find some straw while I'm at it, Pain."

"We're going to need something shiny," Fury said, folding his arms thoughtfully. "D'you think empty cartridges would work? Because I've got a _ton_ of those."

Pain tossed him the half-empty spool of thread he had just dug out of his pack. "That would be perfect! We can suspend them from this."

"Well, Joy, would you care to help me make some paper chains?" The End said, eyes twinkling. "I've just noticed a stack of paper in a rather fetching shade of orange on the desk there."

The Joy sighed and smiled a little, bringing over the paper, scissors, and stapler. "Sure, End. Let's make paper chains. Sorrow, what are you doing for the stupid tree?"

He blushed slightly. "I was thinking of ribbons, except we don't have any. Fear's still got that parachute he ripped back in Cambodia, though, and – maybe we could tear that into strips, since it's really beyond repair at this point?"

She nodded. "Good idea. Get on that."

He smiled at her – and she almost collapsed in shock. The Sorrow _never_ smiled without some kind of grimness behind it, but this was a genuinely happy smile. "Yes, Madam Commander – I'll get right on it."

The End coughed gently. "Joy…Joy. Headquarters to Commander Joy? _Alexandra._" Ah, that had gotten her attention. "If you don't keep your eyes on that, you're going to end by stapling your fingers together."

"_End!_ Don't call me that!" she yelped, blushing and turning back to the paper she was cutting into strips. It wasn't _her_ fault if that smile was too engaging not to look at, was it?

By the end of the evening, they had…well, just as Joy had expected, it was the strangest Christmas tree she'd ever seen. Gun cartridges and various other odds and ends for ornaments, ribbons of parachute silk tied neatly around each branch, clumsily constructed paper chains draped round and round it all, and intricately woven straw bands wrapped around the trunk with cloves and several other unidentifiable dried herbs tucked into them…but then again, it _wasn't_ a Christmas tree, really. She kept forgetting that. The boys were quite proud of it, and had in fact already nicknamed it _that stupid tree_ in as many languages as they could think of. (Okay, so she was responsible for that one.)

It was almost worth getting iced in, to see them actually getting along now.

Almost.


	9. June 25, 1943 - The Right To Bare Arms

_A/N: At a reader's request, I've put dates on all the chapters to make them easier to keep track of, but some are pretty arbitrary; it's not worth the effort on this one to track the Cobras through history. (Research I HAVE done for this chapter: Chatting it up with my grandpa about his WWII service, accidentally swallowing a mouthful of 94-proof rum, wiki-surfing before the Internet went out, losing a game of dominoes very badly, and watching as much of "So Proudly We Hail!" as I could get my hands on with the library closed for Christmas.)_

_P.S. Don't listen to Joy down there; just check the date. After all this, it's no __**wonder**__ she was in such a foul mood in Chapter 3. *retcon retcon retcon*_

[_The inspiration:_ It all started with the title and Veronica Lake's "So Proudly We Hail!" promo pictures. Then, when I'd got halfway through, a tornado knocked out our power and internet access and blocked most of the roads, and it was "write or go crazy". I think I might have done both.]

[_The scene:_ CLASSIFIED, GODDAMMIT! (_How does she keep finding this stuff anyway?!) _NOT THAT IT MATTERS BECAUSE IT NEVER HAPPENED. DID! NOT! HAPPEN! EVER! –The Joy]

_June 25, 1943_

It was the raucous laughter in the other room that kept her from sleeping. It had nothing to do with the angry telegram she'd just got from Donovan (delivered ridiculously late, as usual) about the less-than-perfect execution of their mission two weeks ago, nothing to do with the anger she felt right back since it hadn't been him dodging the bullets that The Sorrow should have known were coming from the scouts that The End had failed to pick off, nothing to do with the frustration of not being able to tell Donovan exactly what she thought of him because she was on thin ice right now as it was, nothing to do with the lingering guilt she felt for yelling at everyone about it and smacking them around for good measure, nothing to do with _still _hating herself for the irrationality of the guilt because they really deserved it, as badly as the unit had screwed this whole thing up, and _certainly_ nothing to do with the fact that she hadn't even undressed for bed yet. No. It was definitely the laughter.

"Would you tone it the fuck down in here?" The Joy snapped, wrenching open the door of the room next to hers. It was of the usual barracks-type, and they'd crammed all five of the other Cobras in here upon arrival – probably Donovan's punishment for leaving such a mess for the backup team to clean up. She was honestly surprised that he hadn't had someone find a second cot and put _her_ in the room too. She kept bugging the base commander about finding some extra rooms for her men, but _he_ always seemed to take weeks longer to do anything than was really necessary as well. She could live with the usual noise, but this was _way_ out of the usual. "Some of us would like to sleep tonight!"

"Sooooorry!" The Fear giggled…giggled…_giggled?_ as he hung upside down from his top bunk. "We'll try, won't we? Think we can try for _le comandante_, boys?"

"Yeah, yeah! Anything for her," The Fury said from his stretched-out seat on the floor, only laughing louder. He and Fear were both in a state of undress, apparently having found outer shirts superfluous. "You heard the lady, tone it the fuck down in here, Pain!"

"_Fuzakeru na_, Fury, you're the one making all the noise," a melancholy voice arose from a back corner of the room, somewhere behind the bunk beds.

"You're _drunk_," she said, wrinkling her nose at their slurred speech and the overwhelming smell of alcohol in the (rather messy) room. "You're _all_ drunk, aren't you?"

"Not all of us…I don't think The End's quite there yet…Madam Commander." The Sorrow must be back there too, judging by the quiet sobs in between phrases.

"I know drunk when I feel it, boy," The End piped up in an unusually reedy tone. "And I feel it. Refill an old man's glass, would you?"

"Absolutely, we are all drunk, boss," Fury said with a grin. "Finally found Sorrow-boy his 80 proof, and everything…actually, it's probably more like 90. Nobody's really sure." He and The Fear practically fell over laughing at that one.

Great. Two rowdy drunks, two melancholy drunks, and…whatever The End was. Joy groaned. As long as they stayed in here, they probably couldn't do _too_ much damage to the unit's reputation…but still. Of _course_ they all drank, like any soldiers would – it was how you blew off steam and dealt with the psychological wear and tear of battle, and in this case, they were probably dealing with just how badly the last mission had gone – but she had never seen them all get really and properly shit-faced at the same time, and there was no telling what exactly where this was going to go. There was only one logical course of action to take.

Joy put one hand on her hip and held out the other. "Give me that bottle, Specialist Fury. Now."

He raised an eyebrow. "Which one, _comandir_?"

"Doesn't matter. Flip a coin for all I care, just hand it over." By the looks of it, in addition to a few bottles of proper alcohol, they had found the local GIs' moonshiner. Not, in her opinion, that vodka and moonshine were all that different from each other. When you got down to just ethanol and water, did it really matter _where_ the ethanol came from?

"You're not confiscating it, are you?" Fury said, reluctantly handing over the bottle he'd stashed under The Pain's pillow.

"Actually, yes, I am," Joy said as she threw herself down on Fury's bunk. She pulled out the cork smoothly with her teeth and spat it at Fear's head; the corners of her mouth turned up mirthlessly when it hit its mark and he flipped right-side up with a yelp. "Everything that goes wrong around here, it's _my_ fault." She grabbed an empty glass and filled it sloppily. "_Joy, you shouldn't have let him do this. Joy, you shouldn't have let him do that. Lexie, kiddo, I thought you knew better than to send a soldier in blind. And why the hell were you carrying around all those explosives anyway?_ Bastard."

"Join the party!" The Fear said, popping back over the edge of his bed with a sympathetic smile. "We're all drowning stuff too."

"And I've got a ways to go if I'm going to catch up with you five, from the looks of it," she said, taking a deep drink and coughing violently as it burned all the way down her throat. "Bloody _hell_, what is this, pure ethanol?! How are you _drinking_ this?"

"One sip at a time, boss," Fury laughed.

Joy made a face at her glass and tried again, this time with a much smaller quantity. For a moment, the room spun, but then everything righted itself and she began to feel her frustration slip away. Donovan could go to hell for all she cared; _she_ was going to _enjoy_ herself, goddammit, even if it meant she had to drink this crap to get there. "Oh, well…it's not exactly champagne, but it'll do. Here's to pretending the last week never happened, boys."

[Some time later…]

The End had staggered off to bed early, muttering about young folks being too eager to ruin their lives and livers. Pain was still back in his corner, slowly and steadily drinking himself into a miserable stupor, while Sorrow had eventually stopped crying and come out to join them in sprawling across the floor and bottom bunks, occasionally bursting into coherent speech but mostly hanging all over other people and rambling quietly to himself. Fear and Fury were still much the same, except that Fear appeared to have completely lost his hand-eye coordination. As for Joy…Joy was _very _drunk, and _damn_, she'd never been happier off the battlefield in her life.

"Ah-hah, I'm out!" Fury yelled, sliding his last domino tile across the floor and knocking all the rest askew. "Hand 'em in, count 'em up!"

"Lessee, I got…five and six is eleven, and…damn it, I'm out of fingers," said Joy, who was currently regretting not having cut herself off once she began to struggle with basic math. "Somebody add me four and eleven! It's…seventeen?"

"_Fifteen_," Fear said, taking the leftover tiles out of her hands and adding up all the pips along with everyone else's. "Thaaaaat's thirty-one to you, Fury!"

Fury laughed. "Total it, then! That was double-naughts again, so that's the end of another round!"

Fear did some quick math, using fingers and toes and both halves of his tongue to keep track of his counting. "I won it!" he crowed, trying to jump up to the top bunk but falling and landing on Sorrow instead. "Ha, sorry – but I won this round, and _Joy lost!_"

"You did not win! I had to be second," Sorrow said, reaching for the score sheet. "Yeah, look at that, Fear, you only beat me by three!"

Fear giggled wickedly. "Well, then I'll share if you want, since the last round went so badly for _yooooou_…" Sorrow cringed, remembering the gleeful look on Joy's face just before she swooped in to pin up his hair in the most feminine little curls and rolls she could manage, complete with ribbons torn from the seemingly never-ending stock of parachute silk…and he wasn't allowed to take _any_ of it down until tomorrow morning. The four of them were playing their own drunken variant of double-six Train, in which one round passed every time they hit double-sixes and double-naughts, and in which at the end of each round the current winner got one chance to make the current loser do whatever he wanted, preferably as humiliating as possible. The only problem was that while everyone else had had multiple turns at the bottom of the score sheet, Joy just _couldn't seem to lose_.

Until now.

"Not _faaaair_!" Joy said, laughing and seeming perfectly willing to allow it nonetheless. Between Sorrow's hair and the amount of alcohol in her system, she hadn't been able to keep a straight face for more than thirty seconds at a time this entire round. "He _completely_ read my tiles on the double-threes, is the only way his score's so high!"

Fury grabbed a tile at random and held it up. "Hey, Sorrow-boy! What's this one?"

Sorrow squinted at the back of it, all he could see. "Three-five?"

"Ohh, he's good, he's good. And here I thought dominoes would eliminate the psychic advantage. How'd you lose so bad last time, if you can read them?" Fury giggled.

"Inverse relationship between blood alcohol levels and extra-sensory perceptive accuracy," Sorrow mumbled. Upon being met with a blank stare from all directions, he sighed and added, "Being drunk makes me wrong most of the time, instead of the other way around."

"Better. I keep _telling_ you, use small words!" Fury said, leaning back and stretching. "I've got an inverse whatsit with vodka and understanding your English."

"Hey, so what should we make her do?" Fear said, without bothering to get out of Sorrow's lap. "It's got to be something _teeeeerrrrible._ Revenge for all her wins!" He threw his arm around him with a high-pitched cackle.

"Be good, boys," Joy said, laughing almost too hard to speak now. "I'm…I'm still your commanding officer, you know!"

"Of course we'll be _good_," Sorrow said, leaning against Fear thoughtfully, starting to sink back into a rambling mood. "But really…when will we ever get to do this again?"

"More than likely _never_," Fear grinned. "What should it be? Maybe something _sheeeeee_ did to us?"

"Well, that would mean choosing something truly embarrassing," Sorrow mused, as oblivious as Fear was to just how much they were embarrassing themselves at the moment. (Was it really embarrassing, though, if they were all so drunk that it just seemed _normal_?)

"Ooh, we should make her answer some kind of question!" Fear said. "You knooooow…like, hey do you think she's a virgin? I'm kind'a curious."

Sorrow looked up and suddenly flung his hand out. "Wait, Joy, don't move!"

Joy froze where she was, still giggling. "What, that's your prize? I'm just not allowed to move?"

"No, no," Sorrow said, poking Fear with a rare, lopsided grin on his face. "Look at her – who does she remind you of like that?"

Fear squinted at her. "I don't know…"

"Pretend she's not laughing…oh, Joy, scowl at him, please."

Fear burst out in laughter once she glared – he saw the resemblance at once. "_Dios_, you're right! Olivia!"

"Olivia?" Fury said, squeezing next to them to try to get their perspective on their commander.

"Y'know, from the film they had on the other night!" Fear said, giggling. "With the grenade?"

"Oh, you mean the bitch who kept going on about "killing Japs"," Pain grumbled from his lonely corner.

"She wasn't a bitch, she was a _hero_," Joy said, breaking form to turn her Veronica Lake scowl on Pain. "She had to die so that her comrades could live! What else did she have to live for after the Japanese killed the man she loved? _They shot him in the face_, for god's sake!" she shrieked in her best approximation of Lake's impassioned delivery. "_Nothing but blood!_"

Fury rolled off the bed laughing, joining the Cobra-pile Fear and Sorrow had started on the floor. "I'm with you, that's some resemblance!"

"Except Veronica's got a better shape," Fear said, squinting somewhere south of Joy's fierce, teary glare.

"Oh, yeah, except for that," Fury agreed. "They wasted a perfectly good pin-up girl on that film, putting all those layers on her, chopping off her hair, and trying to get her to act…"

"A _better shape_!" Joy picked up the nearest pillow and heaved it at the three of them, landing Fear smack in the face despite her advanced state of inebriation. "So what if she's got a _better shape_! How do you _know_ I'm not better-shaped than her, anyway? And there is _nothing _wrong with short and practical hair! And why the hell does that even matter? God! God, you are all such…._men!_"

"Guilty as charged," Fury said, snickering and whacking Fear on the back with the captured feather-filled weapon. "Hey, I think she wants us to stop being men, Fear! Look what she did to poor Sorrow-boy here." Fear cackled and snorted in laughter, while Sorrow abruptly retreated into morose whimpering once more. "Do you think they let you use flamethrowers in the women's corps?"

"Shut the fucking fuck up," Joy snapped. She staggered upright and started popping the snaps on her bulky jumpsuit – she had very little modesty around these boys at the best of times, as they did around her, but it was still probably for the best that she had got into the habit of stealing Fear's tee shirts and wearing them under work clothes for comfort. "Look at this, huh?" she said, struggling out of the sleeves and tensing her bared arms, letting the jumpsuit's top half dangle from her waist. "That's _lean muscle_, goddammit! Stick _that_ on your wall, if you want something to stare at to keep your fucking morale up!"

Fear giggled, not even having noticed the enemy cannon and friendly fire. "Hey Sorrow…I think we found our prize!"

"Forget it, Fear," Sorrow mumbled, having already regressed to sad-drunk stage for the fifth or sixth time in the last hour. "Leave her alone."

"Hey, we didn't do anything. She's doing it to herself," Fury pointed out, handing Sorrow a full glass in the hopes of pushing him back around the bend.

"And I did lose fair and square," Joy said, suddenly dropping her pose and falling down next to them. "So he _is_ allowed to make me…aw…hey, don't cry! Sorrow…darlin'…Fury, you're an _ass_."

Fury snickered. "_I'm_ an ass? You did the emasculating here, _comandir_, not me."

Joy made a face at him and started undoing the ribbons in Sorrow's hair as best as she could around his sobs. "Well, you were the one making fun of him for it."

"But you _started_ it, Joy."

"Doesn't matter who started it," she said, trying to smack him on the side of the head but only messing up his hair. "You've been in enough wars to know _that._"

He snorted. "Yeah, and I've been in enough wars to…aw, fuck!"

"What?" Joy asked, unsteadily working her way through the hairpins now (and yanking out some hair as she did so, though Sorrow didn't seem to notice).

"Fear's passed out…"

"Aw, fuck. Pain?" she said, but her eyes were clearly starting to lose focus. "D'you want to…take…" Fury and Sorrow both turned to look at her, and she giggled as her eyes strayed back and forth without really seeing them. "…take Fear's…" Joy gave another giggle, then closed her eyes and fell forward, out cold.

"And there goes Joy too," Fury sighed, scooping up his unconscious commander from where she'd slumped against Sorrow's shoulder. "Think we should call it a night?"

"Yes," Pain said, finally getting up and coming out of his corner. "I give up. I'm too damn big to get my blood alcohol high enough to pass out…so get the fuck off my bunk, Fury."

Fury had almost been ready to head for bed himself, but unfortunately for Pain, his rebellious streak had a tendency to kick in automatically. "I'm not getting the fuck off anything. Sleep somewhere else!"

"The hell I am. Get. Off. My. Bunk."

Fury scowled and stood up, handing Joy off to Sorrow. "You wanna fight this out?"

"If I have to, I will," Pain said with a glare.

"Fine then! You, me, _now_!"

"_Fine,_ then!"

The Sorrow sighed and struggled upright with The Joy in his arms, slightly woozy himself, though hardly close to losing consciousness. The Pain and The Fury were probably both too far gone to land a punch accurately, which meant the fewer people they had to hit _instead_, the better…

_June 26, 1943_

The first thing The Joy was aware of when she woke was that her head hurt worse than anything she had ever felt hurt before. Knife wounds, broken bones, pulled muscles…no, this was worse. She didn't seem to have ever actually made it into her pajamas, either. What the hell had happened last night? Telegram, laughter, irritation…and then she couldn't really remember anything that had happened after the…vodka…

Fuck.

Vodka.

Her alarm clock suddenly went off, the shrilling bell piercing her brain more keenly than any bayonet ever could, and she pulled herself up and threw it across the room, cracking the clock face against the wall. Seven hundred hours already, and she had a meeting at eight hundred…she could already tell that this was going to be a terrible day. She just _knew_ it.


	10. April 1942 - The Perils of Belligerence

_A/N: 'The Sage' is the title I've assigned the presiding member of the Philosophers. Russian lesson for the day: _Кобры_/Kóbré' = (The) Cobras; _Товарищ_/Tóvarishch= Comrade; _Го́споди/_Góspodye = "Oh, Lord"/ "Jesus Christ!" Also: I've recently uploaded several drawings relevant to this series on my deviantArt account {technicolor-werewolf dot deviantart dot com slash gallery}, including a couple of the lame comics that inspired it all and a demonstration of Joy's striking resemblance to "Olivia D'Arcy"._

[_The inspiration_: Credit goes entirely to my dear Ninten. Ever since I got him to read this, he keeps coming up with brilliant chapter ideas, which is GREAT because his ideas fill in the gaps between mine perfectly…]

_April 14, 1942_

The man at the head of the table cleared his throat, looking down the agenda to find with some relief that they had come to the very last item – and with some trepidation that it was the item he least wished to discuss. "Well, gentlemen, all in all a very productive meeting," the Sage said, setting his paper down and folding his hands seriously. "There is, however, one more thing we need to address…the funding of the Cobra Unit."

"_Kóbré'_…they are already being funded through the remainder of Marshall's contributions to the general fund, are they not?" one of the Soviets rasped disinterestedly. "It is his daughter's unit, after all."

"True on both points," said the Sage. "But if you will remember, Korovsky, it was Judge Marshall's account that was tapped at the beginning of the war in order to recruit several resistance groups toward our interests, almost depleting it to begin with. The startup costs of the Cobra Unit, as well as those of their first three months in operation, have left precisely…ah, two hundred dollars and thirty-two cents remaining, which will not cover one _week's_ costs on the average. If the unit is to remain operational, it _must_ have some new source of funding, and it must have it immediately."

The Treasurer gave a rather apathetic _harrumph_ and said, "Well, are they worth it?" not moving from his comfortable slump. "Yes, I admit that Arthur's report on their part in the business at Tröchten was quite impressive, but are they _necessary_?"

"Are they _necessary_, sir!" Arthur turned on the Treasurer, very red in the face. "Why, without their intervention…"

"We have already heard that part, thank you, Arthur," the Sage cut in crisply. "I do not believe the question is one of necessity yet; the unit needs more time in action before we can ascertain their true potential."

"How much more time? I do not like the reports I am hearing on the _Kóbré'_," Korovsky said, glaring a little. "It seems as though you have collected the rejects of the armies of the world for your…whatever you are calling it. Special force."

The Sage nodded to Donovan, who seemed to already have the requisite files in order and ready to quote from. "Pardon, _Tóvarishch_,but you are forgetting that 'The Pain' was a unit commander himself in Manchuria. I would hardly call that a _reject_," Donovan said smoothly.

Korovsky bristled. "A unit commander for the _Japanese_,_ Tóvarishch_ Donovan! Can we trust him? Can we trust _any_ of them? Who is to say that they are truly fighting on our side, and not merely double-crossing us?"

Donovan shook his head. "Who is to say that for any of the resistance forces we are arming and paying off? No, _Tóvarishch_ Korovsky, your protests are a poor front for your true motives. As much as you would like to have Torchinov's head on a platter for the loss of your leg in Xinjiang, I am afraid you will simply have to wait. What is one more war, when you have already tried and failed to track him down for eight years now? Perhaps you'll get lucky and he'll blow _himself_ up, this time, if the unit is as doomed to failure as _some_ have insinuated." Here he gave a long, hard stare sideways at one of the Chinese, who pointedly ignored it.

"I think that our reservations are_ more_ than warranted," the Secretary said. "We are depending upon a twenty-year-old girl and her eighty-year-old lieutenant to control what can only be described as three unstable mercenaries and one piece of equally unstable dead-weight with supposed…_psychic powers_. I suppose you know her best, Donovan, but from the outside it looks very bad indeed. How can you expect us to trust your word that this little experiment of yours won't go up in flames?"

His words were accompanied by a rumbling of agreement from several others. "It's too unorthodox." "Yes, why not stick to the model that she helped to develop for the SOE, if she _must_ do something?" "She doesn't have the requisite experience to lead a unit into battle, no matter how much training she's undergone." "A woman commander alone with all those men is simply asking for trouble..."

"_Gentlemen_," the Sage said, tapping his hands on the table to regain their attention. "Please. It is getting very late, and we can discuss all this later; the matter at hand is purely financial. We can more than afford to indulge Donovan's pet project for at least a little while longer, I believe; it is a simple matter of passing the resolution." ("Or of not passing it," Korovsky grumbled.) "You may all cease worrying that I am going to propose cutting into your own budgets to provide for it, as the general fund will quite suffice." The atmosphere around the table relaxed considerably, and the Sage resisted a smile of amusement. So protective of their own pocketbooks, these men. "All in favor of setting up a dedicated expense account for the Cobra Unit, to be provided for from the general fund through the cover of the United Nations and overseen by the Treasurer, please raise your hands." A count of hands proved to show a narrow plurality, just enough to pass. "Thank you, gentlemen," the Sage said, glad that _that_ was over, at least for now. "Mr. Treasurer, if you will be so kind as to set up the account as soon as possible; Génève, if you will please pass the orders along to our ambassadors in the United Nations; and Donovan, if you will please notify 'The Joy' of our decision. I'm sure she will be happy to know that her unit has our continued support."

_April 20, 1942_

The Fury was dressing a knife wound that The Pain had recently sustained to the leg when The Joy charged into the cramped dormitory room with an almost demented laugh. …no, now was _not_ a good time to let her know about their experiments with blindfolded target practice. With any luck, in this state she wouldn't even notice.

"_Kiss_ me!" she demanded, laughing and latching onto The Fear, who had the misfortune of being the closest, before abruptly letting go and bouncing up onto a chair, throwing her arms wide. "_Gentlemen! _We are no longer second-class citizens! No more to be looked upon as a freak accident of politics! Not one more day will we suffer beneath the discrimination between armies of nations and soldiers of fortune!"

"What is she going on about?" The Sorrow whispered to The End, both confused and slightly disturbed.

End merely shook his head, thinking back to his first interactions with The Joy. "I _told_ him that she didn't need rhetoric lessons, whatever the virtues of a classical education might be."

"Commander, what are you going _on_ about?" Fury demanded as The Pain pulled a blanket over his wounded leg as unobtrusively as he could.

Joy jumped down from her chair and ran to hug him, eliciting a reflexive_ 'Get off me!'_ and quite a bit of struggling. "What am I going on about?" she said, letting go and seizing him by the shoulders instead. "We're on the radar now! We have _funding!_"

"The radar? Funding? What?" The Fury stared at her, still trying to shake her off – she seemed to have suddenly gone mad. "You have to explain, Joy, we can't read your mind!"

The Joy let go of him, _finally_, and bounded back to the center of the room, grinning widely. "All right, all right. Listen up, boys! The United Nations has recognized us as a top-secret special operations task force under the direction of the United States Office of Strategic Services." (Pain _really_ wished that she would use smaller words. His English still wasn't all that great.) "_In addition_, they've taken note of our inability to fit into the OSS budget, and agreed to grant us proper funding for the sake of the Allied cause."

"Proper funding? How much is _proper funding_?" The Fear said, intrigued. She named the figure with great satisfaction. "….per _month_?" he said once he had made the mental conversion, shocked. "_Comandante_ Joy, my detachment fought _los republicanos_ for three years on _half_ of that! Total!"

"And just imagine what you could have done if _your _rich friends had given you a hand, eh? You know you had a damn hard time stretching those _pezetas_, just like we've had it for the past three months now," Joy said, smirking a little. "Those times are soon going to be far behind us."

"It'll never last," The End said, shaking his head. "It won't take long before someone realizes that we don't actually cost that much and they cut the budget."

"Well…all right, it's not _all_ for us," The Joy admitted, her enthusiasm ebbing a little. "Most of it is actually going straight to various labs for research and development. One of the strings attached to the funding is that we take on some of the weapons and other testing for the Allied countries. Shut up, I'm _not_ done talking," she said, snapping back into sergeant mode as she saw The Fury about to protest. "The remaining one-quarter is completely discretionary – we ask for something, we get it. Rations, ammunition, transport, anything…I can even afford to give you lot personal expenses now. All we have to do is stay under budget and keep a list of everything we use it for."

"We have to keep _accounts? Góspodye_, it's Japan all over again," Fury groaned.

"Japan?" Pain said, finally speaking up out of sheer surprise. "When were you in Japan?"

The Fury shrugged. "'35 to '37, or '38, or something like that. I managed to talk my way into the navy division of the air forces."

Joy frowned. "I didn't know you spoke Japanese."

"Oh, I don't know a word of the language," Fury said cheerfully. "The officers spoke a little English, though, and I happen to be fluent in 'small aircraft', so they put me in a Yokosuka biplane and everyone got what they wanted." Everyone in the room found themselves giving each other apprehensive looks at the idea of _The Fury_ behind the controls of a bomber.

"You could have at least let me know that you have a…" Joy folded her arms across her chest and sighed. "You don't actually _have_ a pilot's license, do you."

"As a matter of fact, I _used_ to. And I still would, if they hadn't taken it away after the United States Air Force –"

"I don't want to know, I don't want to know, _I don't want to know!_" she said, throwing up her hands. "We agreed that we'd all put our pasts behind us for the sake of the greater good, Fury, and that includes…_whatever_ you did in the USAF. What were we talking about, someone?"

"Funding," The Sorrow piped up.

"Yes, funding," she said, sitting down in the chair she had almost knocked over by jumping onto only minutes before. "As I said, there _are_ a few strings attached. Some of our missions and movements, for example, may seem a bit arbitrary, but you are not to question them. We will be provided with experimental weapons to test, some of which may prove to be more than a little dangerous if proper precautions aren't taken, though I expect that _most_ of you know exactly how to handle that sort of thing…" The Joy turned a stern look all the way around the room, catching the eyes of each member of her unit. "I don't want any casualties just because of a little red tape, understood?" They nodded. "All right, good. In addition, as I already explained, we _are_ going to have to account for how all of the money's spent…personal allowances included."

"Aren't they supposed to be called _personal_ for a _reason_?" The Fear said indignantly.

"Fear, when you work for bleeding _accountants _and _bankers,_ sometimes there's not much you can do about your privacy," Joy said, not looking too happy either. "That's what your take-home pay is for. And before you ask, I have no idea how they're handling that, so for the moment we're _all_ shit out of luck on that one." She waited for the grumbling to subside before she continued, pulling a folded sheet of paper out of her breast pocket and smoothing it out in the meantime. "Also, there are a few requirements we have to meet _somehow_..." Joy shook her head. "Well, Fury, I suppose you're the pilot now. Next item, does anyone have medical experience?"

"I do…what, you're surprised?" The Fury said, seeing the return of the unit-wide apprehensive looks. "You don't fight on the front lines of as many wars as I have and not learn battlefield medicine from the patient's point of view, at the very _least_."

Joy sighed. "Right, I forgot…you probably still have enough lead in you to set off a metal detector."

"We should try that sometime," Fear said, looking far too eager. "Hey, _Comandante_, can we ask for one of _those?_"

"_No_. All right, so there's our pilot and medic right there." She didn't look like she entirely trusted him. "…but, Sorrow, I want you to start studying basic medicine, just in case. It'll make you look more valuable to the higher-ups."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. What else…okay, we're supposed to have a…oh, God, _really?_" Joy sighed. "Fury, you're officially the explosives specialist now, too."

He grinned, looking like she had just made it the happiest day of his life. "I swear to do my duty without fail, Commander."

The Joy ignored him and continued down her list. "Let's see, what else…ugh, it's like they're trying to do my job for me here. I've already named my second-in-command, that's The End. We _have_ a scout, that's – Fear, get _off_ the wall while I'm talking, if you _please_! – and advance troops, that's The Pain, The Fury and me – plus a dedicated backup team, that's The End and The Sorrow. Undercover missions are my area, though I guess I could put the two of you down for that, too, if I have to…everyone else sticks out too much. I already took _care_ of all that when I put this sorry outfit together, _God_. I _know _how to run a unit! What do they think I've been doing for the last two years with the girls over at the SOE, having _tea_?" Joy paused a moment to try to calm down, but erupted in anger as soon as she looked down at her checklist again. "And an _interpreter_ for each of the major Axis languages? When I meet whoever wrote this list, I am _personally_ sending him _straight to Hell_." Her scowl everyone else shrink back a little. "All right, around the room, who all speaks what, exactly?"

Fear swallowed nervously, seeing her point at him. "Uh – Bilingual Spanish and Basque. Plus English."

"Great. You can be the Spanish interpreter if we need one. Sorrow?"

"Russian, English…some German, but it's not very good."

"_How_ not very good?"

"Uh..._Ich kenne nicht viele Worte_...did I say that right?"

Joy cringed at his accent more than at his admission of how limited his vocabulary was. "No, it's all right, I just…well, you've got enough roles to play already. We'll work on your German later. Pain?"

"I grew up with Russian and Japanese together, almost fluent Chinese, and learning English now."

"Native speaker, right," The Joy said, scribbling on her paper. "Perfect, they can't complain about _that_. Fury?"

"Russian. And I suppose English is my second language."

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Five armies in seven years, and that's _it_?"

The Fury shrugged. "Like I said…most officers know enough English to get by. And I speak fluent machine gun as well."

"Well, pilot and medic is plenty for you, I suppose, but I expect you to start working on another language anyway. Never stop improving yourself – that goes for _all_ of you. All right, End?"

The End took a deep, almost smug breath before launching into his list. "English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, and – do you think Greek should count?"

The Joy nodded, scratching off what she had just been writing down and adding onto it feverishly. "Greek counts. All right, then, you're our 'interpreter', End, along with The Pain. Congratulations, you two. And that's the end of the list, thank _God!_"

"It's only paperwork, Joy," The End said sympathetically. "Every commander has to deal with that at some point."

"Some paperwork," she grumbled. "Waste of time, I call it. Excuse me while I go stick this in the mail, boys. At least the money's already hit the account and ready to go, or I might not have been able to get a fucking _three cent stamp_. They cut it _awfully_ close this time…God, it's like they _want_ us to fail."

The Fear stretched out his arms as high as he could, popping each vertebra so that his back cracked like gunfire. "Hey, _Comandante_, who's 'they', anyway?"

Joy was already in the hall. "_CLASSIFIED!_"

The Fury pulled the blanket off of The Pain's leg and returned to suturing the wound. "So…experimental weapons, huh?"

"All yours," The Sorrow said firmly.

Fury laughed. "You're going to have to pick up a gun of your own _someday_, Sorrow-boy."

"Well, when that day comes, I'd much rather it be one that I can trust than one that I can't."

Fear hooked his legs around the top bunk railing and flipped himself upside down, swinging back and forth idly. "I still think we should ask for a metal detector…"

Fury rolled his eyes. "No more sugar in your morning coffee, Fear. It throws off your aim _and_ it gives you crazy ideas."

"A lot about the Commander is classified," Pain said as he watched The Fury working on the result of The Fear's thrown-off aim. "Don't you think that's strange?"

The Fury shook his head. "After three months in _this_ unit…trust me, nothing's strange anymore."

The End smiled a little. "For once, Fury, I don't think I could agree with you more."


	11. August 8, 1943 - A Sensual Deficiency

_A/N: {Russian lesson for the day: Don't quote me on "Peshen'ka" because I totally made that up, though I think my process is sound: _Печаль/_Pechal' = Sorrow, shortened to "Pesha" after the model of Mikhail/Misha, Aleksander/Sasha, Pavel/Pasha, etc., and en'ka is a familiar/affectionate suffix. If it sounds really weird, blame it on Joy not being a native speaker.}_

_Sorry this chapter's so late! I've been working on a (GASP) __**serious**__ Cobrafic that kind of grabbed my hand and ran with me, but I managed to crank this one out in between action scen – *is bodily dragged back to the other story, where she has apparently left some plot threads hanging that the Joy wants wrapped up NOW* Uh, more details later!_

**August 8, 1943, Location Unknown**

The Fear whistled quietly to himself as he sat on his tree branch and swung his legs back and forth carelessly. The fog blanketing the ground below him looked like it was going to clear up soon, and there was a good chance they were going to join up with a US infantry unit tonight for a good, healthy skirmish with some Nazis. Nothing in the world could bother him. Nothing, nothing, nothing –

"Fear!"

…he just _had_ to go and jinx it.

"_Fear!_"

He sighed and leaned down to see who it was that was whispering so loudly, as best as he could make out through the fog. "Sorrow, what do you want?"

"Come down here and I'll tell you!"

Nng. Fear really didn't feel like climbing down at the moment. "This had better be important," he said, pulling up his legs and folding himself into a pretzel in a gesture of annoyance.

"Would I bother you if it _weren't?_"

"Sorrow, I mean _really_ important. Like "Fear, Joy's about to throw a fit if you don't do whatever it is you promised her to do and then forgot about" important."

For a moment, all was quiet, and Fear half-hoped he had gone away, but then the Sorrow's voice filtered up through the fog again. "Well…there might be a fit thrown, yeah."

He groaned. "Fine, fine. Give me a sec'." The Fear unfolded his limbs and climbed down just far enough to make a safe landing before he dropped noiselessly to the forest floor, making a rather impressive (_he_ thought) landing directly in front of the Sorrow. "All right, what's she going to throw a fit about?" Fear tilted his head slightly…something just didn't look _right_.

The Sorrow coughed reluctantly. "I, uh…Fear, I can't find my glasses."

Oh. Yeah, that was it. _Dios_, he looked _weird_ without them on. "…and what do you need _me_ for?"

"_I can't see without them_, Fear."

The Fear sighed in annoyance at being disturbed for so little. "Look, don't you have "ESP", or something? I mean, you found me, didn't you? Can't you just _reach out through the spirit world_ and…" He held out his hands and wiggled his fingers.

"It doesn't work like that," Sorrow said testily. "They're just a pair of _eyeglasses_, not a person."

"I still don't see how this is my problem…"

"You have the best eyesight, Fear. Who else is going to be able to find them in all this fog before they get stepped on or something?"

"That's a good point," Fear said, appreciating a compliment when he could get one. Not that he was that easily flattered, or anything. It was a _valid point_, all right? "Okay, let's start at the beginning. When were you last wearing them?"

The Sorrow hesitated. "…Last night."

"…uh-huh. And where'd you take them off?" Fear couldn't tell if the Sorrow was squinting because he was trying to remember or because he was just trying to see his face.

"I…um…I have no idea," he admitted after another long pause. "I think I dropped them somewhere, I mean I got up in the night…"

The Fear groaned. "Just great. All right, get me a flashlight or something, will you?"

"…Fear, when I said I can't see without them, I meant I _can't see without them._" Sorrow rubbed his face. "Do you _know_ how many trees I walked into looking for you? It's like how deaf people have great eyesight…I'm practically blind to make up for my sixth sense."

"Why am I not surprised?" Fear grumbled. "Okay then. Just – hold onto my arm, all right, and I'll get you back to camp."

"Thanks," Sorrow mumbled in embarrassment, latching onto the Fear's arm. "Joy isn't going to be happy if I mess something up tonight because I can't see five inches from my face."

"And that's why I'm helping you." Fear shook his head and grinned at him. "Hey, stop looking so glum, I'm only teasing. You know it's because you're my brother. Secondary family."

xxx

Family or not, there was only _so much_ that the Fear could take. "Okay, are you _sure_ you didn't go out of camp with them?" he said, seriously annoyed. The fog had finally lifted, but that hadn't made a bit of difference. How the hell had he even lost them…for God's sake, the whole camp was only about 40 meters square! "And you _did_ check all your pockets and everything?"

"As much as I could," the Sorrow said apologetically from his designated spot on the ground, from which he was _not allowed to move_ lest he get lost. "I…well…" He hesitated. "I did go down to the creek..."

"_Dios mío_, are you serious, Sorrow?" Fear groaned. "I bet that's where you dropped them, isn't it? Right into the water."

"Probably," he said. "I'm really sorry…at least we know they're not here."

"Yes, at least we know that much, because I have checked under _every damn leaf_ in this clearing." _Much_ to everyone else's amusement, of course – not that the Fury or the Pain were lifting a finger to help…something about "specialization". Fear stood up and pulled Sorrow up with him. "Okay, let's check along the route you took. This way, right?"

"I think so...no, that way. The other path we cleared out."

"What? Over the _rocks_?"

"I'd like to see _you_ be rational while you're half-asleep, Fear."

"Irrational, fine…but _rocks_?" Fear sighed. "Fine. Hang on to my arm again, and don't fall." They carefully made their way over the rocky ground, the Fear sweeping the flashlight slowly back and forth in the hopes of catching even the slightest glint off glass or metal. Nothing. Damn it…they had to have gone in the water. He made the Sorrow sit down out of the way and proceeded to spend what must have been fifteen minutes fishing around up and down the creek bed for his glasses. _Goddammit._

"Guess what?" he said, grinning as he came back up from the creek, half-soaked.

"Did you find them?" Sorrow said hopefully, obviously unable to distinguish the sarcasm in his voice.

"_No_. No, I did not," the Fear said, still grinning. "Sorrow, it looks to me like they are well and truly lost."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_."

The Sorrow paused for a moment in thought. "We're going to be in a lot of trouble, aren't we?"

"Ohhh _noooooo_, there is no _we_ here," Fear said, helping Sorrow back to his feet and going back up the path. "I think we can safely say that this is your fault for losing them in the first place. _I_ had nothing to do with…"

Joy. When had she got back?!

"Hello, boys," she said, far more brightly than she _ever_ did…that wasn't good. She had suddenly stepped out of the forest and onto the path, blocking their way back to camp and any chance they had of miraculously finding them being used as a bookmark or something and pretending that none of this had ever happened.

"Um…hello, Joy," Sorrow said nervously.

"Hi, Joy," Fear said, pushing Sorrow in front of him. Brother or not, _he_ was taking the blame for this one…wait. The Joy was…

"Looking for these?" she said, twirling the Sorrow's glasses by one of their arms. "Silly. You know you can't see without them."

Sorrow took them in relief and put them back on. "Thank you…both of you, I mean. I'm sorry to put you through all that, Fear."

"Where _were_ they?" Fear said, glaring at her. "I swear I looked _everywhere!_"

"Oh, just hiding," Joy said sweetly. She looked like she wanted to laugh. "I'm afraid I forgot to give them back after I found them this morning."

Fear _could not believe this._ "You mean to say that I couldn't find them because they were off with you this _whole time?!_" he hissed.

"Indeed they were, so I believe you can blame me for your trouble rather than poor Sorrow here. Although, _Peshen'ka_," she said, patting Sorrow on the shoulder and grinning, "you _really_ ought to be more careful about where you leave your things."

The Fear grimaced as she walked off. "All that work for nothing…ugh. I probably don't want to know, do I?"

"What? I have no idea what she's talking about," the Sorrow said, not very convincingly due to his sudden blushing. "I'm just glad to have them back." He'd been worried that they really had fallen into the creek when she'd surprised him, but apparently Joy had faster reflexes than that. Of course she did. And she'd probably found them in some pocket or other this morning, wherever she'd had the presence of mind to put them so they'd be out of the way while they were kissing.

The Fear had been right about one thing. Note to self...rocks? _Bad idea._


	12. June 12, 1942- Lets Start An Altercation

_A/N: Russian lesson for the day: "Ёбаный/Jóbanyj" is actually pronounced something like "Yobane'y" (I __**think**__), but I'm keeping the non-phonetic spelling for consistency. Also, this chapter has a lot less swearing, if the usual amount happens to bother you. _

[_Inspiration: _One, Fear and Fury needed some alone time in the sandbox so I could get a better look at their friendship/sibling-rivalry, which is supposed to be shaping up to be awesome; two, Ninten lives with a couple of guys whose antics in the name of proving their manhood could fill a book in and of themselves; three, I was watching the 1980s TMNT the other week and some of that accidentally spilled in. Sorry, April – I mean, Joy.]

[_Trivia_: In headcanon, these two were born exactly two years apart. Fury's older.]

_I'm too tired to remember if the Tunisia Campaign had started yet in mid-'42, but hey, does it really matter for the sake of a cheap laugh? Say they're advance forces or something. Oh and the UN mentioned two chapters ago actually refers to the newly-formed Allied Forces; it was FDR's name for them. Also, Donovan's totally lying about there not being room in the OSS budget. __**is in the middle of actual research**__ Don't tell the Sage…_

**_June 12, 1942  
Acting Base of Operations (i.e., a decrepit abandoned house that the Fear stumbled on by accident), Algiers_**

"I am _so. Jóbanyj. Bored._"

"Ugh. Just say _fucking_, why don't you?"

"Because I like the way _jóbanyj_ sounds better. The English word…it's so _inelegant._"

The Fear laughed aloud, a high-pitched cackle that suited his lanky, disjointed form frighteningly well. "Inelegant? _You're_ worried about _inelegant?_"

The Fury glared at him. "It happens."

"You surprise me," Fear said, still grinning. "I had you all drawn out as the simple one. You know, just point and shoot, set a few things on fire from time to time…not someone to think twice about _elegance_."

"Funny," Fury growled, glare deepening. "I had _you_ all drawn out as the smartass who talks big but never actually puts his precious neck at risk if he can avoid it."

Fear dropped his grin and bristled at the insinuation of cowardice. "_Perdón,_ _who_ is it that goes in first to check for mines and ambushes?"

"At least I've got the guts to fight up close instead of hanging back and picking off whoever the End misses with a goddamn _crossbow_," the Fury said angrily. "…and he _doesn't_ _miss_."

"So _far_ he doesn't miss," the Fear said with a slight hiss and an annoyed tongue-flicker. "Sooner or later we're going to get in deep enough to _need_ two snipers, and I'm a lot more mobile than he is anyway, so I can get the ones who try to run. And what's wrong with my crossbow, anyway?" he added, sounding more wounded by the insult to his weapon than by anything else. "A bolt kills just as well as a bullet, doesn't it?"

The Fury rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised that Joy even lets you use it. Those bolts are a _dead_ _giveaway_ that we've been on the job."

"That's the _point_," Fear snapped. "I'm not a subtle kind of soldier, Fury; I'm all about the shock value. Sometimes we're supposed to let them know we've been there. The Joy knows what she's doing."

"She may know what she's doing, but she could have at least told us _why_ we're getting left behind while everyone else gets to go out and have fun with their little assassination plot," Fury said resentfully.

Fear sighed. "End's the one with the bullet, Sorrow's doing intel', and Pain and Joy are posing as the Egyptian ambassador and his daughter so that they can find where the mark's hiding out. Where, exactly, do we fit into that equation?"

There was a long silence, then a heavy sigh. "She could at least have brought me along as backup firepower!"

"She's got herself and the Pain. I think she'll be fine."

Fury shook his head. "Well, _whatever_ the case, here we are back at the beginning: _There is nothing to do in this place!_"

The Fear thought about it for a minute and then sighed too. "...I suppose you're right. What exactly was it that she said when they left?"

Fury hauled himself up from his chair and, folding his arms across his chest, stuck one hip out to the side, cleared his throat, and attempted to raise his voice an octave or so in a frankly terrible impression of the Joy. "Ahem… _Your part of the job is to stay right here and be ready in case we have to make a quick escape. And __**try**__ to stay out of trouble!_"

"It's like she doesn't trust us, or something," Fear said after he had picked himself back up off the floor from laughing at the Fury. "Oh, and never do that again. You have the world's worse falsetto."

"Oh, like yours isn't worse!"

"Well, it isn't!" Fear took his best stab at it. "**_Try _**_to stay out of trouble!_"

"That actually wasn't bad," the Fury said after they had both stopped laughing. "I always _thought_ you were the effeminate one."

"_Effeminate?!_"

Fury snorted in laughter. "Yeah…effeminate. You know. Not very manly – girly, even. Womanish. Bit of a pansy…"

"I _know_ what it means," Fear snapped at him. "_Effeminate, afeminado_, I know _that_ when I hear it…the only part of English that throws me off is the damn German words."

"Oh, yeah. Damn German words." Fury nodded.

"Damn Germans."

"Damn Nazis, you mean."

"Yeah..damn Nazis." A moment of silence passed between them before Fear spoke up again. "I am _not_ effeminate, Fury."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then…" It was then that the Fury uttered the two most dangerous words known to mankind. "_Prove it._"

Unfortunately, it was immediately followed up by the three _second_-most dangerous words known to mankind. "_Maybe I will!_"

…then again, maybe he wouldn't. "_This_ is how I'm supposed to prove my manhood?" the Fear said, looking over the three opaque bottles on the table in front of him. "Come on, you could at least have challenged me to hand-to-hand combat, or something."

"I couldn't fight _you_," the Fury scoffed. "I've seen the way you jump around in midrange fighting, and I'd never be able to get my hands on you long enough to get a proper hit in. _Bóz_, and people wonder why we named you the _Fear_…"

"It's because I _inspire_ fear, you idiot!" Fear said, seething. "Not because I'm afraid! I am absolutely _not afraid!_"

Fury just grinned at him. "Then pick a bottle and start drinking, _Fear_." The Fear reached to snatch up the one in the middle, but stopped halfway. The Fury hadn't even told him what was in them, just that they were _probably_ all different degrees of unappetizing, but that he would never know if he didn't try his luck. "Oh, having second thoughts?"

"Never," Fear snapped, taking the bottle and lifting it to his lips. He knew the moment he opened his mouth that he'd made a _horrible_ mistake, but it was too late to go back now…as hard as he tried, he only managed to keep a straight face through the first five seconds. "_You son of a bitch!_" he hissed, coughing, once he'd finally got it all down. "What the _hell_ was…" Oh _dios_, he was going to be sick.

The Fury never fully stopped laughing, and the Fear never fully stopped glaring at him, until the other four dragged themselves back in around ten o'clock. "Never again," the Joy groaned, heading directly to the back of the house to change into something more normal as soon as possible. "Never, ever, ever again."

"'s'matter with her?" Fury asked, eyebrows raised.

The Pain was stripping off the layers of cloth that had hid his face. "Somebody had to get the aide out of the room so that the End could get a clear shot, and apparently she hates being that somebody."

"I swore when I got out of spy work that I'd never go back to playing butterfly!" she yelled from the back room, slightly muffled by what was probably the dress going over her head. "I am not _Mata Hari, _God damn it!"

"Stop exaggerating, Joy," the End said, settling into a nearly-broken chair and preparing his pipe calmly. "Nobody said you had to do anything even remotely like that, and you didn't." He paused. "…you didn't, did you?"

"_No!_ What the hell do you take me for?! I'm a soldier, not a whore, and you know it!"

"Aw, come on, a little flirting never killed anybody," Fury said, repressing a laugh.

The Joy stalked back into the room, still throwing her outer shirt on and pulling pins out of her hair. "It just might kill _you_ if you don't shut it, Fury. I swear, it took everything I had not to knock him senseless then and there for even _thinking_ about looking at me like that," she growled. "That, or maybe break his nose. I've broken a lot of noses in my time."

"So I've heard," the End said, a little disapprovingly. "And I know you know that violence doesn't make anything better."

"Thanks for the lecture, but I don't want to hear it," she grumbled. "I already used up a week's worth of pretending to be a cute airhead today, and that's _hell_ on my self-control, all right? Fear, what's the matter with you? You look like death."

"I _feel _like death," he said, scowling at the Fury. Fury just looked back at him with an innocent smile.

"…_what did you do, you two._"

The Fear thought his options over very quickly. He could tell her everything, but that would just make both her and the Fury very angry – bad idea. Or he could think of a cover story very, very quickly – not so bad idea. "Eh, we just got bored," he said, lightening up his scowl as best as he could and trying not to think of how much it had hurt to retch up half a litre of badly spoiled camel milk. "Nothing really happened except for Fury being completely insufferable. Do you know how much he complains?"

"Only when I've got something to complain about," Fury shot back, picking up on the cover immediately. "And I did. Could you at least take us along next time, Joy? Or just me. Leave him, I don't care."

"There you go again, whine, whine, complain…"

"Don't make me come over there, Fear."

"I'm not going to forgive you until you apologize for calling me a woman, _Fury_."

Joy groaned. "Can you not get along for five minutes? At least _try_?"

"This _is_ how we get along," Fury grinned.

Eh. He wasn't _such_ a bad sort, camel milk aside, and Fear could probably weasel an apology for that out of him later. "Yeah, don't you know it when you see it, Joy?" he said, suddenly laughing at the memory of Fury's _awful_ falsetto. "You didn't have any brothers, did you?"

"That's classified information." (The look on her face said _no_.) "Fine, whatever keeps you all from biting each other's heads off…just cut the bickering, would you? It's giving me a headache."

He and the Fury looked at each other. "…try aspirin?" Fury suggested.

She threw up her hands. "That's it. I'm going to go write my report and after that, _bed_. Wake me up when you're all feeling reasonable again."

"Some mood she's in," Fury said when she was gone, shaking his head. "You'd think she'd enjoy getting a break from the daily grind. I bet she didn't ever have any lovers either, an attitude like that."

"_Classified information_," the Fear giggled through his nose, making Fury snicker, and the Pain laugh, and even the Sorrow crack a little smile from the corner he'd silently taken up _yet again_. They were going to have to get that guy out of his shell somehow. Well, he and the Fury could probably think of something for _that_.

It might even be fun.


	13. Feb 19, 1944 - Kicking and Screaming

_A/N: To everyone who's finished Peace Walker: Good for you. I HAVEN'T. (I only started the series less than a year ago, ok?) I know __**vaguely**__ about Los Alamos, but since I haven't got to Strangelove yet and so don't know the details, I've just been pretending that I didn't accidentally spoil that part for myself. Therefore, this chapter almost certainly contradicts canon…but I don't care. The idea was just too funny to get away. For the easily squicked: beware of...MILD REPRODUCTIVE SCIENCE! BWAHAHAHA!_

_ALSO! The action/adventure fic mentioned last chapter has started posting and is set to update every Wednesday and Saturday! I'm super excited. :D (For some reason, FFN refuses to put it anywhere NEAR the Metal Gear crossovers, but you can access it easily enough from my profile.) Mini-synopsis: June 1943, Tunisia…The mother of special forces and a smart-mouthed archaeologist accidentally wreck each other's missions and nearly kill each other in the process, but they don't have time to argue about it – the nature of life and death are threatening to shift, a Cobra member's very existence is in danger, and the SS is playing dirtier than ever in…__**Indiana Jones and the Necromancer of the Nile**__!_

**February 19, 1944**

Technically speaking, the Joy wasn't even supposed to be out of bed right now, let alone on the battlefield in the direct line of fire. _No physical exertion and no psychological stress, and even so, it's more likely than not that you'll miscarry. You just don't have the correct hormonal balance to maintain a pregnancy_. What a load of crap that was. She was totally fine, and the baby seemed healthy enough. Hell, he _liked_ being out in battle, as far as she could tell. It could partly be her own adrenaline rush carrying over, but just the sound of gunfire was enough to make him start bouncing around even more than usual. (She was about 95% certain it was "he". That was the Sorrow's opinion, anyway, and the tiny consciousness that had begun to nestle up against her own in the last few weeks – God, _how_ _much_ was he going to be like his father?! – felt distinctly boyish to her as well.)

When she had been so miserable for so long that she'd finally allowed herself to get checked out properly, "miracle" was what the doctor had told her. "Freak accident" was what the Joy had told everybody else. For about six or seven years now it had been nothing but "your body will never finish developing correctly if you don't stop pushing it so hard" and "you do realize that you won't be able to have children until you cut back enough to allow menarche to occur". She'd ignored the warnings with no qualms whatsoever; she _had_ to train that hard, and she was grateful to not have to deal with the blood or the mood swings like other girls. She had never been bothered by being temporarily infertile, either – she'd been consumed by intelligence and military work since around the time somebody wondered why she hadn't started her cycles yet, and – well, having children should probably wait, shouldn't it? It wasn't like she even had somebody to have children _with_…that was, at least until recently she hadn't. And it just figured that after twenty-one years of complete amenorrhea, the "occasional" part of "negligible chance of occasional ovulation" would pick _now_ to come back to bite her.

(She had a recurring internal monologue on the subject that usually ran along the lines of: "Thanks, ovaries. Thanks a lot. You could've at least, you know, given me a little warning that you were going to randomly pop one off. Then I could have gone, _"Oh, fuck! My ovaries are working! I should probably be more careful with my sex life!"_ But noooo, you just _had_ to go and let me get pregnant then and there, didn't you? Oh, yeah, and thanks, too, hormones. Because of you, I don't even know when it happened because I have _no fucking LMP _to go by, so until we get some better signs, I have a two-month window for a due date. Next time, would you just give me a heads-up? It's not that I don't _want_ kids; it's just that I happen to be, well, _in the middle of a war_ here. Great sense of timing, guys. …oh, don't you _great sense of timing, yourself_ me. I had good intelligence that you weren't going to be a problem, damn it. And those were two _very good months._")

Anyway, here she was, five or six or _something_ months pregnant, charging into a battlefield in the direct line of fire – or really, dodging from hiding spot to hiding spot and firing as many bullets as she could get off in between. The Cobras _had_ been on a sabotage operation, but that was before an unexpected tripwire had brought in a lot more defenders than they'd thought they would have to deal with. Note to self: have some very sharp words with the local agent when they got back to –

Oh _God_, it felt like she'd just got hit _hard_. Not by a bullet but…_nnnngh…_

The Joy collapsed where she was behind a concrete wall, eyes screwed shut and gasping for breath. _God_ there it went again...she heard the Pain's voice beside her, panicked. "Joy! Joy, are you all right? What's going on?"

She was breathing heavily, trying to recover from the shock of something knocking the breath out of her _from the inside_. "That…_stop that!_"

"Stop what?" A heavy hand descended on her shoulder.

"Not talking to you." She coughed and flinched as her lower rib took another blow, trying to distract herself by reloading her rifle with shaking hands, her head spinning… "This little bastard is _kicking me_. _Hard_." Suddenly hearing something behind her, she doubled over just in time to avoid a piece of shrapnel flying over the top of the wall. What was the Fury blowing up _now?_

The Pain looked back, wide-eyed, to the shard of metal crumpled against the wall behind them. "Uh, Joy, are you going to be okay to –"

"I'll be fine," the Joy hissed, pulling herself up to kneeling and taking out an advancing soldier with one clean headshot before ducking back down. It was still so _unsettling_ to – _ouch!_ – feel the baby wiggling around inside her, even more so now that he seemed to be using her small intestines as a springboard to manage a complete flip…and the _kicking_ was just disturbing. This whole damn pregnancy was one incident of bad timing after another, wasn't it? She glared at the Pain, whose eyes clearly indicated that he thought she'd completely lost her mind. "It's just a little _uncomfortable_," she said angrily. "I'll be _fine_. Go ahead and advance while we've got the advantage, I'll stay here and…nng. Keep picking them off." She got up and hit another one, trying to ignore the fluttery feeling of _somebody who just couldn't sit still_ doing excited twists and turns. "See?" she said, pushing a piece of damp hair out of her face. "I can still shoot just fine, and End and Sorrow are still behind me if anything happens. Which it won't. Now go _on!_"

Reluctantly, the Pain moved forward and the Joy settled down behind her wall, popping up to take the easy shots and even managing to take down a sniper whom they had quickly put into place to try to remove her from the fray. "Hey, that was my _stomach_, you know!" she hissed when that got her a particularly excited kick to the innards, coughing as she pressed her forehead to the ground and tried not to be sick. "Just…just _wait_ until your father and I name you so that I can yell at you properly for this!" She changed out scopes and moved to better cover after that, crawling as low as she could back to the edge of the woods and finding a seat just far enough into the shadows to take advantage of her camouflage. She should still be able to hit them from here, with the better magnification…

A gentle pressure against her back almost tripped her mental alarms, except that Baby finally stopped squirming and turned over again to nestle against her spine, closer to the body against hers. She could have sworn that she could feel the kid _purring_. "The few survivors are about to retreat," the Sorrow said quietly, leaning his head back over her shoulder so his words would reach her ear. "Some of them intend to try to flank us, though, so if you want to stay here I'll watch your back."

"Thanks." The Joy pressed her cheek briefly against her lover's before reshouldering her gun and dropping an enemy soldier about to take a swipe at the Fear. "Radio out to the other three to chase all survivors back around here before they can retreat. I want total elimination, or we'll never get into this base." She tuned out the static and voices suddenly filling her ears, continuing to watch and shoot until the last enemy had disappeared from sight before holstering her rifle in favor of her sidearm, something a little easier to handle at close quarters. The little one was bouncing around happily again, but at least his position meant it was her abdominal wall getting kicked and not her internal organs. "Oh yes, and _your son_ has just discovered how to use his leg muscles."

"That bad, hm?" he said, helping her shift to a crouch so that they could move across the forest floor to a more defensible position. "He's only _my son_ when he annoys you."

"Well, he's been kicking like you wouldn't believe," she complained. "I'm only back here because he kept knocking the damn _breath_ right out of me – ow! There, did you feel that?" She had just been kicked hard again, right underneath where the Sorrow's arm was curled around her side.

"I did…"

"Little show-off," the Joy grumbled as they snuck further back to where the others were headed, conversing in an undertone. "I'm starting to think he just likes the attention."

"Maybe you should talk to him more when he _isn't_ giving you grief, then. They pick up on tone of voice very well."

"Oh, is _that _why he likes you so much, you're just _nicer_ to him."

The Sorrow laughed quietly. "Don't sound so sarcastic, Sasha. That probably _is_ why."

"I'll have you know that I _do_ talk to my baby, _Misha_, and very sweetly, too," she said, spotting the rendezvous point, the End's post, with relief. "I just don't…do it out loud." She felt much too self-conscious to actually vocalize the one-sided conversations she had been having with little Freak Accident here; they were…uncharacteristically sentimental. Nothing that anyone else needed to hear at all. (He _really_ needed a name. Note to self: broach the topic the next time that no one is getting shot at.) "I'm _sure_ he probably understands any –"

The Joy was cut off as a sudden blow to her shoulder knocked her back several feet and landed her face down in a tall bank of leaves that both half buried her and cushioned her fall. She tried to process everything around her as she instinctively curled up to protect the child…one – two – three shots were fired, an empty cartridge struck her arm and another hit the dead leaves beside the gun she had dropped, hot blood splashed onto her exposed cheek, the ground shook like bodies falling. The Fear swung down and grabbed her, and as he pulled her up…to her _extreme _embarrassment…she suddenly lost consciousness.

She regained it within minutes (or so she thought…), blinking dizzily at the vague shapes on the platform where she was seated. There was a little gunfire close by, sounding like the closing shots of the battle. She felt lightheaded, nauseous…and the baby was kicking again, making the urge to vomit even worse. "I'm listening, I'm listening," she whispered hoarsely, turning to one side and finding a solid surface to lean against. "What do you want?" To her surprise and relief, as soon as she spoke he stopped kicking her stomach and settled down on one side of her womb, seemingly content. The Joy sighed quietly, screwing her eyes shut again in the hopes of overcoming the remainder of her nausea. "…I'm never going to figure you out, kid."

Someone touched her shoulder. "Joy. Commander – _Joy_, can you hear me? Are you all right, how do you feel?"

"Yes, no, and awful, Fury," she said, not opening her eyes. "What happened?"

"You got lucky," he said, moving her head slightly to check her pulse. "The two of you walked right into an ambush, there – idiot Fear didn't see it because he was too busy taking care of the guys on the other side. You look really pale. Are you hurt anywhere?"

The Joy shook her head slowly, taking heavy breaths. She was starting to feel _really_ sick again. Stupid…stupid ovaries, stupid _everything. _She hated being pregnant sometimes. "Just…a bit nauseous and dizzy." She swallowed hard. "Where's the Sorrow?"

"Joy, try opening your eyes."

"I'd rather not," she said, but opened them slightly anyway at hearing his voice, and then suddenly snapped them open wide to make sure she wasn't _seeing_ things. His hair, face, shirt were streaked with ridiculous amounts of –

"It's not _my_ blood," the Sorrow said hastily, holding up a hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"But – you look like you hit someone in the throat at point-blank…"

"I did." They stared at each other for a moment, the Joy trying to put words together to express her shock. He _never_…not _ever_…

The End sat down next to her, holding something. "Total elimination complete, Commander. Now _eat_ this."

She turned her head away quickly. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

"You only _think_ you're not hungry," he said with that stupid I'm-More-Experienced-Than-You-And-You-Know-It look. "I've been keeping an eye on you, Joy, and you're not eating nearly enough, which is why you keep _passing out_. Don't forget that you're not the only one you have to eat for."

The Joy reluctantly let him shove the ration bar into her hand and nibbled on it slowly just to make sure she wasn't right in ascribing her uneasy stomach to nausea rather than hunger. "Once every two or three days is not enough to establish a pattern. And it's not like we have that many provisions to spare. They really fucked us on this one, and you know it…"

He fixed her with a hard stare. "Stop making excuses and eat. Now."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, unable to hold up under the combined forces of hunger (all right, so maybe she _wasn't_ eating enough) and that tone of voice. Most of the time, she was his commanding officer, but sometimes she was just the granddaughter he had always wanted to go to war with. "What's the situation? Anyone?"

"Battlefield cleared on their side, no casualties on ours," the Fear piped up. "If there's anyone left, they're hiding in the back of that base, but the door's still open."

"Okay, then." The Joy sat up a little straighter and looked out toward their target. "At this point, I don't think there's any point in being subtle. Once I'm up again, we'll do the usual clearing procedure. Fear and Pain at the exit, Fury –"

"Flamethrower, right?"

She sighed around a mouthful of food. "Yes, and stop looking so damn pleased about it…anyway, shoot anyone who comes out, and then we'll go take out the controllers in there. It's probably a lot more important than we thought if they sent all _that_ after us."

The End put a firm hand on her shoulder. "As long as "we" doesn't include _you_, Joy. You can't just go from unconscious to battle without more time to recuperate than this operation allows for. Back me up on this, Fury…Fury!"

The Fury was squinting over the edge of the platform, trying to judge the distance between himself and the bunker door. "Y'know, I can probably get the job done without even having to go down there."

"The hell you can," the Fear said, laughing.

"Nah, check it out, I modified this one for extra propulsion – shoots twice as far as the original. Problem is, I need something to stand against so I don't get blown off my feet."

"Like _that'll_ ever work. Have you even tested it yet?"

"Yeah! I just stood with my back against the Pain, and I was fine."

"I'm going to be around back _shooting_, remember?"

"See! Not going to work. I bet it blows up on you."

"Will not."

"Will too."

The Joy tuned out their bickering and took a deep breath to try to clear her head. She must have spent the first half of the battle running on pure adrenaline, because she really _was_ feeling weak and hungry now. "Sorrow," she said when she finally let it out again, "we have been fighting together for _two years_, and I have _never_ seen you shoot to kill when you had control of yourself."

"I _said_ I would watch your back, Joy," he said quietly, still trying to clean the blood from his face and neck. "So I did what I had to do, for both of you. And I always will."

_You know, kid, it's a good thing you like him so much already. There's a good reason he's your father._

_A/N: Oops, forgot to explain the Russian diminutives that got dropped in there. Sasha is short for Alexandra – you've seen how much she ~loves~ her name, but he doesn't want to just call her Joy all the time, so it's a compromise – and Misha is for Mikhail. I swear, I named him Mikhail before I even started reading fanfiction...honest…it just seems to be a naturally popular Sorrow name for some reason._


	14. Sept 29, 1945 - If This War Was Over

_A/N: I made up the specific insults used, but the OSS and the FBI really did hate each other's guts from the very start, and they used up an incredible amount of resources just spying on and annoying __**each other**__. You just can't make this stuff up…I love history. Also: first of a three-parter! This is what happens when you write while ridiculously sick! _

**September 29, 1945  
Washington, D.C.**

The Joy's eyes rested, out of focus, on the elevator lights as they moved from floor number to floor number to indicate her descent. Yes, she still insisted upon being the Joy, at least to _herself_ – she didn't like to think of herself as The Boss, and didn't expect to _start _liking it any time soon. Who had come up with that stupid title, anyway? It was beyond gratifying to be recognized by her country, of course, but…_The Boss?_ Really? She knew that it was because the Philosophers wanted the rest of the world to stay in the dark about who she really was. Publishing her real name, or any of her aliases, would have disastrous consequences on account of the intrigues they'd involved her in over the years. The war might be over now, but the political scene was no less troubled. It was glorious, of course, that the war was over – finally over, the soldiers coming home safely, the lights of peace appearing on the horizon again – and it was equally wonderful to be back in America…home. Home, at last. Both wonderful things, but still…she wished it wasn't happening like _this_.

The Joy and her unit had been in Washington for about a week now, her because she had been ordered and them because she had refused to come unless they were allowed as well. The war was over, the OSS had just been dissolved…their future together was precarious. She couldn't spend any more time away from them than she absolutely had to, because she had no idea which day might be the unit's last – and she didn't have much time to give them in the first place. The President wanted to see her, most of the Philosophers wanted to see her, Donovan had needed her to destroy the evidence connecting the Philosophers and the OSS before Edgar Hoover's "Frighteningly Bad Idiots" could get their hands on it, and in between it all, she had been going back and forth between the Assistant Secretary of War and the Sage, practically begging them to keep the unit in one piece. The Cobras were still needed, she'd argued a hundred times. They could still be useful. There were still places where the Axis forces had only surrendered on paper, and what McCloy was inheriting of the American counterespionage system needed bolstering by trained experts, and where else was he going to find _those_, might she ask?

McCloy had no problem with it, and had promised to let her know as soon as he got it approved; the higher-ups, however, were apparently not keen on having any more foreign involvement in the spy agencies than they had to. "Do you think you could possibly do it without the Soviets?" he had made the mistake of asking. Seeing her face, he had changed the subject before she even got her mouth open and never mentioned it again. For his part, though, the Sage was not thrilled by the idea of keeping the unit together at all. The Philosophers had no direct connections to the new SSU, and tensions were already beginning to rise between the three branches over who would get what share, exactly, of the Legacy now that the war had concluded. She'd been forced to play on his sense of self-interest: as long as the Cobras stayed together, the three powers had a reason to keep cooperating, and if the different branches split, then his power vanished. She had a feeling that she was going to get that approval soon enough, but still…her nerves were frayed. Joy didn't have a good backup plan if this one failed, and she didn't like that. She wasn't sure what the Philosophers would want to do with the rest of her unit, but the Soviet branch had been chafing at the bit to get the Sorrow back practically ever since she'd recruited him, and she knew the American branch wasn't going to let _her_ go anywhere, for sure. She needed _all_ of them in her life, of course, but it went without saying that, out of everyone else…

_Ding!_

The Joy almost shot out of the elevator at the sudden noise that could have meant _anything_ on a battlefield, but checked her instincts with a shudder, thanked the operator with a smile, and click-clacked out into the lobby in the most "normal" manner that she could manage. Less than a week, and posing as herself was already getting under her skin. (Were high-heels and ridiculously bright lipstick _ever _going to go out of style, she grumbled to herself. The only upside was that now she could get away with wearing slacks instead of skirt suits.) She had intended to set off for another visit to the Sage, but the same instincts that had made her try to bolt picked up immediately on General Donovan seated in the back corner, half hidden by a potted plant – that was either very, very good or very, very bad. "Lexie!" he said, smiling as she came up to him and joined him at a table he seemed to have conjured out of nowhere. All right, he wasn't calling her "Boss" –and he was actually smiling despite everything that had just happened to him. Those were both good signs. "Excellent news. 'They' have decided in your favor, but under one condition – 'they' want to completely circumvent the War Department. You're not American forces anymore; you're off the grid again, reporting directly to 'us'_._"

She sighed in relief and put her forehead down on the cold Formica for a moment to prevent the grateful flush she knew was coming, a split second before she realized that doing so would likely smear her foundation. _Ugh_, she just hadn't had to deal with it in so long… "Thank you, sir. I'll accept whatever keeps us together. I'm glad 'he' came around and realized that we're worth it."

"That you are," Donovan said, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry about the lodging, by the way. I know it's not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but with everyone in town for the ceremonies and this and that and the other, and it not being just you, this was the best I could get you on that kind of notice."

The Joy sat up and laughed. "You're _sorry?_ Donovan, we've been in the field for three years straight. You could have stuck us in a cheap _motel_, for Christ's sake, and it would have been like heaven. The Ritz-Carlton would have just set off everyone's paranoia." Hell, just _this_ place was enough to set off everyone's paranoia…the Fear still wouldn't let anyone in to clean his room. (She couldn't really blame him, knowing how often cleaning ladies were used as spies, but still – it wasn't like they _had_ anything to hide, was it? Well…the Brazilian spider, maybe. That probably wouldn't be the best surprise for the poor woman.)

"Maybe you're right," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I remember when I first got back from the front after the First World War…I was seeing Germans in every shadow for _weeks_."

"And I remember you telling me that," the Joy said, smiling and shaking her head. Donovan was an old 'friend' of her father's, and she had practically grown up on his war stories…all the things he couldn't brag about to his own daughter.

Donovan gave a roaring laugh that _completely_ defeated the purpose of having found them an inconspicuous seat. "'We' always knew you'd make a good soldier, Lexie. It was just a matter of time and training…and look at you now, eh? "The Boss". The best of the best."

"I wouldn't say _that_," she sighed. "I'm good, sir, but I need my boys to run at full potential. You remember what I told you when I asked for permission to form them, that I wanted a unit as tightly knit and perfectly complementary as the pieces of a gun…and I honestly believe that that's what I've accomplished."

"And that is why you're still together, so don't look so glum!" He patted her on the shoulder again. "Let me get you a cup of coffee, kid. Hey!" Donovan leaned over and snapped his fingers at one of the hotel girls. "You, missy! A cup of fresh black coffee for the lady, here!"

"Weren't we supposed to be trying to lay low back here?" the Joy grumbled, looking askance at him. Donovan never _had_ had much of a sense of secrecy, which made it all the more amazing that he'd run a spying operation as well as he had.

He waved his hand. "Psh, coffee is more important. You look tired, Lexie, and 'he' wants you all on your way to Europe tomorrow. There's still a lot of work to be done, you know."

"_Tomorrow?_" She stared at him. ("Your coffee, ma'am," the lobby girl whispered, setting the cup down and retreating as discreetly as she could.) "That's not much notice, is it?"

"Well, you know 'him', he doesn't mess around once he knows what he wants," Donovan said cheerfully, getting up from the table. "Well, I'd advise going and getting your things in order. It was nice to see you one more time before you ran out on me again, kiddo."

"Nice to see you too," she said, without really meaning it, watching him wink and hand what was probably a ten- or twenty-dollar bill to the lobby girl on his way out. The Joy had the feeling she didn't really want to know _why_. God…shipping out tomorrow. She took the coffee mug with her as she walked back to the elevator, shaking her head. She'd better go tell everyone while they were still to be found – not that they ever went anywhere. The "jet lag" excuse for sleeping in was getting to be completely unbelievable after a week on the new time schedule, but at least it kept them out of trouble…

Fifteenth floor, here she was. They had six rooms reserved, which was _really_ one more than they needed (there was really no point in pretending that she and the Sorrow weren't practically married by now), and she went down the line banging on doors until she got to her own, which she opened to find…

…no Mikhail. This was not a good sign; she'd left him sleeping off a very rough night of dealing with her distress and insomnia after a rather pointed comment from the Sage that she had a very vulnerable sixteen-month-old reason not to ask too much from him, and she could have sworn she'd only been gone twenty, twenty-five minutes at most. (It was a _very_ nice hotel, but still, the elevator was slow.) Maybe he'd just gone into the bathroom…no, the light was off and it was empty. Come to think of it, it was also odd not to have heard at least a _little _grumpy moaning at her attempts to rouse the unit. She hadn't seen them go through the lobby, so they _had_ to be around here somewhere…

Ah. Here was a note next to the lamp. The Joy picked it up and read it.

_Счастье,_

_I'm sorry for the short notice, but Nikolai somehow got his hands on a bus schedule and it turned out that there wasn't much time to catch the next one. The general consensus was that it was about time that we got out of here and actually saw the town, since only the Lieutenant really has before. If you can find time to meet us for lunch, we're hoping to be at the Mall by around noon. I have to go, as we're cutting it close enough as it is. I hope to see you soon._

_Mikhail_

God. One day left in the country, and _now_ they decided they were going to split on her and take off? They could be _anywhere_! The Joy groaned and checked her makeup in the closest mirror, pulled her coat out of the closet, and ran back out into the hall, locking the door as she went. Back stairs. Of course, they'd used the back stairs. Fifteen flights of stairs would be no problem for men who routinely sprinted across rough terrain while carrying upwards of seventy pounds in gear, and they were probably already on the bus and headed God only _knew_ where, to do God only knew _what_. She ought to have more faith in them, but…

No. Her concerns were probably absolutely justified.

This time the Joy skipped the elevator and went straight for the stairwell, whipping off her shoes and taking the stairs two and three at a time in her stocking feet. This just couldn't end well.

_A/N #2: Russian lesson for the day: Счастье/Shast'ye = happiness, a generic term of endearment. Apparently, given its phonetic similarity to "Sasha", Sorrow is no more above the occasional pun than I am. And…when I set out to write this fic, I swore I'd never use anyone's names, ever, because it would be out of character for a group that's supposed to be operating under complete secrecy through codenames. You see how well I'm doing with __**that **__so far. Soooooo, introducing: Nikolai as the Fury! (His surname was already made public back in Chapter 10; it's Torchinov.) My excuse is that no one's supposed to actually know that they're the Cobras. It's kind of a lame one, but again. Sick. *handwave* _


	15. Sept 29, 1945 - Washington, DC

_A/N: Hiya guys…long time no post. Sorry 'bout that. I've been sick in one way or another for about two months straight now; this chapter almost didn't happen at all, and was only finished with a **lot** of help and gentle prodding. So, after this…Chapter Sixteen is going to finish out the three-parter and bring The Punchline to a **final close**. I've moved on to other projects, and I feel like this fic has fulfilled its purpose as a personal testing ground for backstory and characterization. I was never writing it for anyone but me, anyway; I was absolutely boggled when you lot showed up. It's been really cool. *salutes* _

**September 29, 1945  
Washington, D.C.**

The hardest part of getting around the city without drawing too much attention to themselves was, surprisingly, _not_ trying to cover up the Pain's scars. He was a veteran severely injured in the line of duty, of course, and the bandages on his face were only natural to maintain some form of dignity. _Aren't you so glad this war is over? Thank God. Oh, yes miss, the rest of us are as well – my friends here were actually on leave when victory was declared. The coffees are on the house? Oh, please, I insist – oh, well, I suppose can't say no to a pretty girl like you._ (It was usually at this point that someone threw a little money on the counter anyway and dragged the Fear away before he could make any more attempts at charm. The sad part was that despite his normal tendency to make every girl in sight shrink away from him, he was actually succeeding with it for once. The others put it down to the fact that his having learned English from Frenchmen gave the immediate impression that he was a member of the Resistance making a brief visit to America with a few Army friends. Apparently, the ladies really went for the Resistance angle.)

No, the hardest part was keeping their hard-learned paranoia under control in a bustling city where _anyone_ could be _anywhere_ doing _anything_ that they would never know about until it was too late. The best solution they'd found was to periodically hand off the duty of looking out for trouble, which left the other four free to relax a little and made the spotter feel safer knowing that _he_ was the one in charge of security. The End rambled on happily whenever it wasn't his turn to play lookout, pointing out what places of significance he recognized and occasionally making pointed remarks about what might have been had the American colonies not decided to start their petulant little revolt. Since no one else knew the slightest thing about American history, they all just nodded along and pretended to agree…maybe they _should_ have tried to pick up 'The Boss' on their way out. The Sorrow mentioned as much as they paused to take in the view from the top of one of the five million hills in this cursed city, and everyone seemed to agree.

"Yeah…cut off a snake's head and the rest isn't going to have the best time of it," the Fury said, making a face.

The Fear popped up next to them, looking worried. "I hope not. Somebody's following us."

The Fury stared at him in shock. "What?"

"And how long?" the End said, purposely keeping a neutral expression to not give anything away. "'Who' would also be a helpful answer."

"If I knew _who_, I wouldn't say _somebody_," the Fear said nervously. "Male, about one and three-quarter meters tall, dressed normally except for wearing sunglasses. I have no idea how long. I just now noticed him. Right there." He made a sweeping gesture that could have passed for conversational in the direction of their tail.

"Ah…I noticed him on my watch, but he didn't seem to be paying us much interest," the End said quietly.

"Same here," the Sorrow said, taking a quick glance over his shoulder as if he were stretching his back. "So, he must have at least have been tailing us from the hotel."

"That's not good," the Pain said from under the bandages he'd thrown on while sprinting down the stairs earlier that morning. "How do we take him out?"

"No idea. I'm guessing that our usual tactics are off the table," the Fury muttered darkly.

"You guess well," the End said drily. "You know we can't draw any attention to ourselves, Fury."

The Fear perched precariously on the edge of the End's bench, looking worried and thoughtful at the same time. "Neither can he, _I'm_ guessing. After all, he's been following us for two hours and hasn't made a move yet."

"So what….is he just observing us?" the Pain said, kicking a rock around restlessly.

"Yes. He's taking notes," the End said, taking care to look away as he said it.

"_Notes_? _Boz' moy_…we gotta get that notebook, then." The Fury considered for a minute, then pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, crumpled it up, and threw it hard at the Fear's head.

"Ow! What was that for?" the Fear yelled, picking it up and throwing it back. There was definitely a plan in the works here, and their spy was going to need to know about it.

"I'm hungry."

"And how the hell is that _my_ problem?"

"You're the guy who's going to find something to eat."

"The hell I am! You can wait 'til lunch like everyone else."

The Sorrow sighed quietly. "Are they really…"

"Revisiting Nice? Apparently, yes," the Pain said before raising his voice back from a whisper. "Hey, who said 'everyone else' was waiting? I'm hungry, too. And don't forget you still owe me a couple favors _and_ five dollars."

"Fine, fine, but _you_ had better pay me back," the Fear said, glaring at the Fury before sauntering off down the street.

"You could have at least asked me first," the End grumbled once the Fear was out of sight. He _was _supposed to be in charge without Joy there, after all.

"Why, you wanted something too?" the Fury said, grinning innocently.

The Sorrow shook his head. "Just keep talking…"

The Fear was back soon enough, looking smug. Mission accomplished. "And you made it back in…five minutes, fifteen seconds," the Fury said, checking his watch. "Only took you two and a half in Nice. Are you losing your touch, or what?"

"Nice didn't struggle," the Fear said, emptying out his pockets. "He never saw me, though. I went up the next wall over, over the roof, and dropped right down behind him – that part was fine. I just didn't whack him hard enough over the head the first time, that's all."

The End began picking through the sizable pile of objects that the Fear had brought back. "…you took his _wallet_?"

"Yeah – I took everything," the Fear said with a shrug. "I turned his pockets inside out and took his coat off, even, and then I smacked him around a bit and dragged him back into a corner. When he wakes up, he'll think he got mugged and they just grabbed everything they could find. Oh yeah, and he had a camera with him –" he pointed it out – "so I got a couple shots of his face, too. It should be interesting to see what he's been taking photos of, exactly."

The Fury nodded along reluctantly. "As much as I hate to say it – nice work."

"We should probably move along _before_ he wakes up," the Sorrow said, cutting into the return of the Fear's smirk. "We can always examine the evidence later, safely out of sight."

"Good point," the Pain said. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Eh…eleven-thirty?"

The End pulled himself up and stretched. "We should head for the Mall, then, to see if Joy is actually going to meet us – although I don't see why she wouldn't."


End file.
